EMBERS 


WITH 


THE    FAILURES,    THE    GARGOYLE, 

IN    HIS    HOUSE,    MADONNA, 

THE    MAN    MASTERFUL 


ONE- ACT  PLAYS   OF  CONTEMPORARY  LIFE 


BY 

GEORGE  MIDDLETON 


Who  ever  knows  what  is  right?   The  answer  always  lies 
so  many  years  beyond. 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1911 


COPYRIGHT,  191 1, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

Published  October,  1911 
ENTERED  AT  STATIONERS'  HALL 

These  plays  in  their  present  printed  form  are  designed  for  the 
reading  public  only.  All  dramatic  rights  in  them  are  fully  pro 
tected  by  copyright,  and  no  performance  may  be  given  without  the 
written  permission  of  the  author  and  the  payment  of  royalty. 


THE  QUINN  A  BOOEN  CO.  PRESS 


To 
G.    C.   AND    I.    V.    M. 


225911 


PREFACE 

THESE  little  plays  were  written  for  acting,  but 
arranged  for  reading.  Knowing  how  small  an  oppor 
tunity  the  professional  stage  in  this  country  gives  for 
the  serious  one-act  drama  so  common  on  the  Continent, 
they  are  modestly  offered  to  those  who  see  some  dignity 
in  the  form,  and  who  realize  that  certain  dramatic 
ideas  find  their  best  expression  in  the  concentrated 
episode.  The  growing  demand,  also,  among  readers 
for  plays  has  encouraged  the  author  to  \vrite  these,  and 
their  unexpected  publication  in  the  magazines  has 
prompted  him  to  bring  them  together. 

They  make  no  pretense  save  to  show  character  in 
action,  and,  in  several  instances,  to  picture  its  different 
reactions  from  the  same  stimulus.  They  are  studies 
in  consequences  and  readjustments,  being,  in  fact,  a 
further  expression  of  some  preceding  situation.  Each 
play  is,  therefore,  the  epitome  of  a  larger  drama  which 
is  suggested  in  the  background. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PREFACE         v 

EMBERS           .        .        .        .        .        .        .  i 

THE  FAILURES 41 

THE  GARGOYLE 69 

IN  His  HOUSE 99 

MADONNA 135 

THE  MAN  MASTERFUL  .                ...  163 


EMBERS 


THE  PEOPLE 

THE  HON.  MASON  KING,  a  Diplomat. 
RUTH  HARRINGTON,  a  widow. 
JASPER,  her  son. 
MAID. 

SCENE 
MRS.   HARRINGTON'S  Sitting  Room. 


EMBERS 


F  I  fHE  curtain  discloses  the  abode  of  quiet  unirn- 
I  portance.  Some  plaster  casts  upon  the  old* 

**-  fashioned  mantel  above  the  fireplace,  at  the 
right,  and  a  feu?  dark-framed  engravings  on  the  walls 
reveal  the  native  refinement  of  the  occupant.  The  fur 
nishings  are  subdued  in  tone;  dull  curtains  cozily  drape 
the  window  at  the  left  and  the  door  near  this  which 
leads  into  another  room.  At  the  back,  in  the  center, 
large  doors  open  in  from  the  hallway.  Above  the 
sofa,  crept  in  from  another  period  of  life,  is  suspended 
a  shaded  lamp,  which,  when  lighted,  softly  floods  part 
of  the  room. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON  is  discovered  sitting  beside  the 
sofa  where  her  son  JASPER  is  lying  asleep.  He  is  a 
young  man  full  of  latent  strength,  with  a  sincere  and 
persuasive  charm.  MRS.  HARRINGTON  is  in  the  late 
forties;  her  slightly  grayed  hair  fringing  a  face  sweet 
ened  and  chastened  by  a  life  of  obvious  resignation. 
Her  manner  is  calm  and  full  of  understanding,  with 
its  strange  suggestion  of  unattained  ideals.  She  is 
simply  but  tastefully  dressed. 

*  Copyright,  1911,  By  George  Middleton.  All  rights 
reserved. 


«   /EMBERS 

There  is  a  long  paused  The  daylight  is  fading  from 
the  gray  winter  sky.  The  clock  strikes  five  slowly. 
JASPER  turns  in  his  sleep  and  laughs  ironically,  then 
sighs  deeply.  MRS.  HARRINGTON  rises,  pulls  his  dress 
ing-gown  about  him,  lights  the  lamp,  looking  at 
JASPER,  and  shaking  her  head  sympathetically.  She 
shades  the  light  from  his  pale,  drawn  face  which  shows 
pronounced  traces  of  recent  and  persistent  dissipation. 
She  pulls  down  the  window  curtains,  completely  shut 
ting  out  the  daylight.  The  room  is  full  of  shades, 
shadows,  and  silences.  A  soft  knock  is  heard. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

Come  in.  Sh!  (The  door  in  back  opens,  and  THE 
MAID,  in  conventional  black  dress,  enters  with  a 
letter.)  At  last.  (Disappointed)  He  has  sent  an 
answer ! 

(She  takes  the  letter  eagerly  to  lamp,  sits,  looks 
tenderly  as  though  having  seen  the  handwriting 
for  the  first  time  in  a  long  while.  THE  MAID 
fixes  the  fire,  and  the  dancing  flames  soon  add 
a  sense  of  comfort  to  the  room.  MRS.  HAR 
RINGTON  opens  letter,  reads,  sighs  in  relief  at 
contents,  looks  at  JASPER,  and  drops  her  head 
in  silent  recollection.) 

MAID 
Is  Mr.  Jasper — <? 


EMBERS  5 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

Oh,  he's  better.  Only  a  headache.  (MAID  starts 
to  leave.)  I  am  expecting  Mr.  Mason  King.  Let 
me  know  at  once. 

(MAID  goes  out,  leaving  door  in  back  open. 
MRS.  HARRINGTON  rises[  connects  letter  in 
her  mind  with  her  boy,  and  goes  back  to  close 
door.  JASPER  tosses  about,  sits  up,  and,  be 
lieving  he  is  alone,  speaks  from  a  genuine  grief, 
unheard  by  MRS.  HARRINGTON.) 

JASPER 

She's  not  worth  it.  To  lead  me  on.  And  then 
toss  me  over  for — .  Damn  her ! — Oh !  (He  puts  hand 
on  head,  turns,  and  sees  MRS.  HARRINGTON,  thinking 
she  has  just  entered.)  Hello,  mother.  Just  come  in 
to  see  me?  What  time  is  it?  My  eyes  feel — 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
(Tenderly  and  without  reproach  throughout) 

You've  slept  all  afternoon.  You  were  very  tired. 
It's  after  five. 

JASPER 
I've  an  engagement  at  six.     Some  new  friends. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

(Concealing  her  objection) 
Then  you've  hardly  time  to  dress,  dear. 


6  EMBERS 

JASPER 

See  here,   mother — Well,   well,   don't  wait  up  for 

me.     I   may  be  late  again.     Please  don't.     (He  sits 

down.     MRS.     HARRINGTON     takes     key     from  the 
mantel.) 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

You  left  this  in  the  door  last  night.  (JASPER  pockets 
it,  rather  ashamed.  MRS.  HARRINGTON  embraces  him.) 
My  boy!  my  boy!  (He  gently  turns  his  lips  from  her 
attempted  kiss.) 

JASPER 

Don't,  mother.  I'm  not  worth — oh! — why  are  you 
so  good  to  me?  Why  don't  you  tell  me  what  I  am? 
I  know.  I'm  a  cad.  I've  lost  hold  of  myself  com 
pletely. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
We  all  do  at  times,  Jasper. 

JASPER 
You  never  did. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

(Smiling  sadly) 
I've  made  mistakes! 


EMBERS  7 

JASPER 

I  can't  stop  it.  Something  drives  me  on — on. 
Every  time  I  think  of — oh! — you  don't  know — ;  you 
wouldn't  understand. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

Perhaps  not.  But  I  see  my  son  is  not  himself:  his 
eyes  are  not  so  clear,  his  face  is  drawn,  his  hands 
cold.  Besides,  he  has  lost  all  his  ambition,  his — 

JASPER 

( Uncomfortably) 
I  must  be  getting  ready. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

(Eying  him  tenderly) 

Yes, — yes, — dear.  (MAID  re-enters  with  card  which 
she  gives  to  MRS.  HARRINGTON.)  So  soon?  Take 
his  things:  don't  keep  him  waiting.  (MAID  exits, 
leaving  door  open.  JASPER  reads  card  as  MRS.  HAR 
RINGTON  hands  it  to  him.) 

JASPER 

Mason  King?  Haven't  the  papers  been  full  of  his 
pictures  lately  and — 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
Yes.     I'd  like  you  to  meet  him. 


8  EMBERS 

JASPER 

It's  a  great  privilege,  but  I'm  not  keen  for  states 
men. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
(Reminiscently) 

He  was  not  so  famous  when  I  first  knew  him.  He 
was  about  your  age. 

JASPER 

(Absently  referring  to  many  dog-eared  magazines 
about) 

Do  you  still  keep  all  his  articles  and  speeches? 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

I  have  always  been  deeply  interested;  though  it's 
been  many  years  since — 

JASPER 

(Impulsively) 

I  don't  want  memories.  I  couldn't  live  if  I  looked 
back.  (Changing  in  mood  as  she  gently  watches  him) 
Oh!  mother,  I  didn't  mean  to  be  disagreeable. 
(Starting  to  leave)  I  don't  know  when  I'll  be  back 
to-night. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
(  Tenderly  while  detaining  him  ) 

Jasper,  you're  troubled  deeply — very  deeply.  I  see 
that.  I  haven't  asked  a  word.  Boys  can't  tell  their 


EMBERS  9 

mothers  everything,  just  because  they  are  mothers,  can 
they?  But  you  would  feel  better,  dear,  if  you  could 
talk  over  whatever  it  is  with  some  one.  (Still  de 
taining  him)  Couldn't  you  go  to  Ethel? 

JASPER 

(Laughs  ironically) 
Ethel!     Ha!  Ha! 

(He  slams  door  as  he  goes  out.  MRS.  HAR 
RINGTON,  deeply  moved,  realizes  the  cause  of 
his  mood.) 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

Oh,   forgive  me!     So   that's  why!     Poor  boy:   no 
wonder. 

(Pause.  She  turns.  MASON  KING  enters. 
They  stand  alone  a  long  while,  looking  at  each 
other  without  shaking  hands.  The  scene  is 
quiet  and  suggestive  of  hidden  emotion. 

MASON  KING  is  an  imposing,  authoritative  man 
past  fifty;  his  face  tells  of  one  deeply  versed 
in  the  struggle  with  realities,  yet  possesses  a 
kindliness  which  colors  all  he  says.  There  is 
a  deep  reverence  in  his  attitude  towards  MRS. 
HARRINGTON  which,  at  times,  embarrasses  his 
apparent  social  ease.) 

KING 

It  seems  like  yesterday. 


io  EMBERS 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
Since  you  left  me? 

KING 
With  your  answer. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
You  recall  that  first — after  the  absence? 

KING 
Your  answer  made  the  absence. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
(Cautiously) 

I  am  sure  we  can  talk  calmly  now — without  pain 
to  you? 

KING 

There  was  no  pain  in  my  heart  then — only  empti 
ness. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
Yet,  after  I  married — 

KING 

My  letter  told  how  glad  I  was  you  had  found  hap 
piness. 


EMBERS  ii 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

Happiness?  (She  smiles  vaguely.)  And  you  said 
then,  as  before,  if  ever  I  needed  you — 

KING 

That  is  why  I  -am  here  now. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

Come  closer.  (He  comes  within  light,  as  she  looks 
at  him.)  Your  jaw  has  squared  a  bit;  that's  because 
you  determined  to  do  things.  Your  eyes  are  steadier; 
that's  how  you  did  things. 

KING 
Do  you  see  anything  to  tell  why  I've  done  things? 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

Yes.  But  I  can't  quite  make  it  out.  Some  great 
resolve  hidden  from  everybody.  (Less  seriously)  You 
must  tell  /we  some  day. 

KING 

( Slightly  surp rised ) 
You  are  still  interested? 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

I  have  followed  your  career  upwards.  (She  falters 
under  his  intense  gaze,  then  continues  less  seriously) 


12  EMBERS 

Oh,  the  light  also  betrays  the  lines  of  an  aging 
woman,  eh?  You  can  read  little  there:  a  marriage, 
a  mother,  a  widow — and  some  dreams  unrealized. 
Voila  tout! 

KING 
But  a  mother! 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
(With  great  joy) 

Yes.  That!  (Looks  toward  door.)  It  is  about  my 
son.  He  mustn't  know  I  sent  for  you.  Won't  you 
sit  down?  (She  sits:  he  looks  about  room.)  Does 
it  seem  like  me? 

KING 
Yes.     As  I've  sometimes  thought  you  might  be. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
(Pleased  and  surprised) 

You've  really  thought  of  unimportant  me?  (He 
bows.  She  looks  about,  too,  with  a  touch  of  con 
cealed  bitterness.)  They  are  souvenirs  of  my  married 
life.  (She  motions  him  to  sit.  He  does,  watching 
her.  Pause.)  Confess.  You've  been  silently  meas 
uring  me.  Do  you  remember,  with  sufficient  vivid 
ness,  the  original — now  that  you  see  the  faded  negative? 
She  was  a  girl  with  hopes  and  dreams,  wasn't  she? 
And  now,  she's  a  woman  with — 


EMBERS  13 

KING 
Pleasant  memories,  I  trust. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
(Starts  to  deny:  hesitates) 

But  there's  no  occasion  to  be  too  serious — eh? 
(More  casually)  You  see,  I'm  talking  just  as  we  did 
in  the  old  days.  It's  strange:  I've  always  felt,  when 
I  thought  of  you — and  it's  been  often — that  somehow 
you  did  understand  me,  that  no  matter  what  hap 
pened,  I  could  still  turn  to — (She  shrugs  her  shoul 
ders.)  Much  has  happened,  but  I  didn't  bother  you, 
because — well — I've  been  away  so  long, — and — 
(Tenderly)  in  the  early  years  I  was  vain  enough  to 
think  perhaps  it  might  open  a  wound.  (He  bows.) 
But  now — well,  I  turn  to  you  to  help  me  with  my  son. 

KING 

(Coming  out  of  his  reminiscent  mood) 

Forgive  an  unsociable  guest.  With  gray  hairs,  I 
fear  I've  grown  to  be  rather  a  silent  body.  Of 
course,  I'll  help  the  boy — if  I  can.  What's  the 
trouble  ? 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

(Clearly) 

The  remedy  lies  in  a  long  trip  with  a  dominating 
interest  sufficient  to  gather  his  scattered  energies  into 
one  definite  channel. 


14  EMBERS 

KING 
(Smiling) 

You've  thought  it  out. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
He's  been  very  unhappy. 

KING 

Cynics  would  scent  a  woman. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 


KING 

Has  he  told  you  anything?     (She  shakes  her  head.) 
Then  your  intuitions  alone  have  discovered  —  ? 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
What  and  who  it  is?     Yes. 

KING 

Is  it  roses  or  just  wild  oats? 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

(With  conviction) 

The  best.     They've  been  pals.     It  must  have  been 
something    else    with    Jasper.     (KiNG    understands.) 


EMBERS  15 

I  imagine  she's  going  to  marry./  £*e  known  her 
myself  for  years.  She  would  nave  been  worthy  of 
my  boy. 

KING 

(Sincerely) 

Then  he's  a  lucky  chap: — we  must  make  him  see 
it  for  himself. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

(Puzzled) 
You  are  enigmatical? 

KING 

»_» 

(Acknowledging  it  and  smiling) 
And  so,  the  disappointment  has — ? 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

Yes.     He's  been  trying  to  forget  in  the  only  way 
most  men  think  forgetfulness  lies. 

KING 
Yes,  yes.     Most  men. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

It's  hurt  me,  of  course.     I  haven't  reproached  him 
because  I  blame  myself  for  his  weakness.     (He  halts 


16  f  EMBERS 

inquiringly. )[  Oh,  never  mind,  why.  \I  thought  per 
haps  a  little  of  this  might — it  does  sometimes — that 
he  might  find  himself  unaided;  but  he  -hasn'-Ll  It's 
going  deeper  than  I  thought?!  He  has  given  tip  all 
his  work,  and  he  was  so  ambitious.  It's  not  a  light 
young  man's  affair;  it's —  (She  sighs  deeply)  and  I 
was  getting  afraid  of  where  it  would  end.  I  knew, 
every  one  knew,  you  were  sailing,  in  a  few  days,  on 
the  Peace  Commission.  I  thought — 

KING 

( Understanding) 
I  suppose  your  boy  is  fairly  intelligent? 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

(Smiling) 
He  is  a  college  graduate. 

KING 
That's  the  sort  I  want.    He'll  be  open  to  facts. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

(Eagerly) 
Then  you  will? 

KING 
(Agreeing) 
If  he— 


EMBERS  17 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

You  must  make  him  go.  (Gratefully}  How  shall 
I  ever — ?  (KiNG  hushes  her.)  You  know,  we  older 
people  are  very  careless  sometimes  with  this  love.  A 
wrong  word  may  separate  us  from  the  children  we 
parents  foolishly  grow  to  feel  we  own — may  wreck 
a  life. 

KING 

Or  make  one.     (They  look  at  each  other.) 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
Sh!     He's  coming. 

KING 

To  think  it  should  be  your  boy  who — 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

There's  something  in  his  better  self  which  reminds 
me  of  you,  as  I  knew  you.  (JASPER  enters  in  Tuxedo. 
Overcoat  on.  He  stops.)  This  is  Mr.  King.  My 
boy,  Jasper. 

JASPER 
(With  great  respect) 

It's  an  honor  to  meet  you,  sir.  (KiNG  shakes  hands, 
holds  it  fondly,  indicates  immediately  he  is  pleased  with 
JASPER.  JASPER  looks  at  mother:  his  eyes  sink  under 


i8  EMBERS 

KING'S  close  scrutiny.     Pause.)     I  am  sorry  I  must 
be  going  out,  sir.     I  have  an — 

KING 

(Cordially) 

Sorry,  too.  Should  have  liked  a  chat.  (Managing 
him  subtly  throughout)  Heard  you  were  very  clever. 

JASPER 
Who  told  you?     Mother? 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
(Smiling) 

Mr.  King  knows  all  things. 

KING 

You're  promising. 

JASPER 

You're  mistaken  there,  sir. 

KING 

Why,  it's  written  all  over  you.  (Looking  him 
over)  Good  clear  eyes.  (They  lower)  Steady- 
straight-at-you-eyes.  (JASPER  faces  him  steadily) 
Strong  face.  Right  kind  of  lines  coming.  (Feeling 
hands)  Plenty  of  good,  healthy  blood.  Of  course, 
you're  promising.  (Eying  him  keenly  as  JASPER 
turns  away)  Sorry,  though,  you've  got  to  go  out. 


EMBERS  19 

JASPER 

(Almost  in  spite  of  himself) 
I  can  stay  a  few  minutes. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
(Delighted) 

Let  me  take  your  coat,  <)lear.  (She  helps  him  off 
and  looks  at  KING  significantly.  JASPER  tries  to  ap 
pear  at  ease.)  Is  it  too  late  for  tea? 

JASPER 
Tea — huh ! 

KING 

(Seeing  decanter) 
Rather  this,  eh? 

JASPER 

(With  a  touch  of  abandon) 
Yes. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

Let  me.  (She  brings  it  down.  KING  pours  out 
some;  uses  siphon,  offers  it  to  JASPER,  who  eyes  mother 
and  declines.) 

JASPER 
Oh,  I'm  not  thirsty  yet. 


20  EMBERS 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

Now  you  have  met,  isn't  it  too  bad,  Jasper,  that 
Mr.  King  won't  have  time  to  really  know  you? 

KING' 

Oh,  strange  things  happen.  I  like  your  son.  I 
want  to  know  him.  I  shall. 

JASPER 

Thanks,  Mr.  King,  but — 
KING 

I  am  leaving  the  country,  you  mean?  True. 
(Abruptly)  How  would  you  like  to  go  with  me? 

JASPER 
(Astonished) 
I  don't  understand,  sir. 

KING 

It  is  a  bit  sudden,  eh  ?  The  cares  of  statesmen  these 
days  are  not  public  calamities  but  private  secretaries. 
One  of  mine,  for  instance,  has  too  persistently  wor 
shiped  King  Alcohol — (JASPER  starts)  and  so  he  does 
not  sail.  It's  personality  I  want;  you've  got  that. 
I'll  gamble  on  your  ability.  Will  you  take  his  place? 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
(Joyed) 

Jasper,  it's  what  you've  said  would  be  the  first 
step  to — 


EMBERS  21 

JASPER 

(Eagerly) 
Do  you  think  I  could  do  it? 

KING 

I  seldom  make  mistakes  in  people.  Besides,  it  will 
be  a  great  favor  to  me. 

JASPER 

Thanks.  Thanks.  I  want  to  advance, — to  be 
something — ;  (Recalling)  at  least,  I  did.  But  I 
can't  do  it.  I  can't  now. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
(Persuasively) 

But,  Jasper,  one  never  knows  what  one  can  do 
till— 

KING 

I'm  willing  to  take  the  chance. 

JASPER 
(With  conviction) 

That's  what  it  would  be:  taking  a  chance. 
(Poignantly)  No.  I  couldn't  do  it.  I  couldn't  get 
my  mind  down  to  it.  I'd  always  be  thinking  of 
something  else. 


22  EMBERS 

KING 

And  then? 

JASPER 

(With  bitter  conviction) 
Then  I'd  do  like  the  Secretary  you've  dismissed! 

(He  sinks  into  chair  abashed.  MRS.  HAR 
RINGTON  controls  herself  and  pats  him.  KING 
watches.  There  is  a  long  pause.) 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

Dear,  dear,  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't.  (Defending 
him  to  KING)  Jasper  has  had  a  hard  winter.  And 
I've  not  been  very  well,  until  now,  and  he's  been 
taking  care  of  me,  haven't  you,  boy?  He's  just  a  bit 
unstrung  and  excitable.  The  trip  across  will  do  you 
good,  dear,  and  once  you  get  interested,  it  will  be 
easier.  (JASPER  laughs  softly.) 

KING 

Work's  the  answer.  Your  mother  was  (Correct 
ing  slip)  is  right. 

JASPER 
(Rises  slowly,  deeply  offended,  and  controlling  anger) 

Was?  That's  it.  Why  you've  come.  Mother 
wrote  you.  You've  talked  it  over.  So  it  was  all 
arranged  to  get  me  away  to  save  me  from  going  to 
the  devil!! 


EMBERS  23 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

(Hurt) 
Jasper! 

JASPER 

You've  been   trying  to   "handle"   me.     Isn't  that 
it  ?     Mother  ? 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

(Resigned) 
It  was  for  your  sake,  my  boy. 

JASPER 

(With  quiet,  yet  sincere,  indignation) 
You've  made  a  mistake.     I  know  what  I'm  doing. 
I   could  stop  it.     I   don't  want   to.     I'm  "happier" 
this  way.     (He  starts  to  pick  up  his  coat.) 


JASPER 

(With  quiet  dignity) 

I   don't  need  outside  help,  mother.     I  won't  have 
interference  from  strangers. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
You  mustn't  say  such  things. 


24  EMBERS 

KING 
(Taking  JASPER  firmly  between  shoulders) 

Jasper!  You're  no  stranger  to  me.  I  know  you 
better  than  you  think.  I  have  followed  you  for  years 
— no  matter  how  nor  why.  (JASPER  surprised.  MRS. 
HARRINGTON  turns  and  crosses  in  growing  wonder 
and  realization.)  I  understand.  You  are  feeling  just 
as  I  did  some  twenty  odd  years  ago.  (Movement  by 
MRS.  HARRINGTON.)  Like  throwing  all  the  best  of 
you  in  the  mud,  with  so  many  consoling  companions. 
(With  great  sincerity)  But  you  musn't.  God,  boy! 
you  musn't! 

JASPER 
My  mother  has  asked  you — 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

(Quickly) 
Not  to  blame  you;  only  to  help  you  help  yourself. 

JASPER 
She  could  have  said  these  things. 

KING 

(Detaining  him) 

But  you  haven't  quite  considered  her,  have  you? 
(JASPER'S  eyes  sink  guiltily.)  So  you  must  keep 
away  from  the  mud  for  your  own  sake.  (JASPER 
smiles.)  And  for  one  other. 


EMBERS  25 

JASPER 
(Halted) 
Another?    Who? 

KING 
(Simply) 
For  the  sake  of  the  girl  you  love! 

JASPER 

(He  stops  in  absolute  astonishment  that  his  secret 

is  known.     He  turns  to  mother,  but  realizes 

that  he  has  not  told  her) 

The  girl  I — who  told?  Nobody  knew.  (Putting 
on  front)  You're  mistaken;  there  is  nobody.  Tell 
him,  mother.  (She  puts  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
He  sees  she  knows.  He  hesitates,  and  becomes  genu 
inely  and  not  peevishly  ironical.)  Well!  what  if 
there  is?  (Sarcastically  to  KING)  You  know  all 
things,  ha,  ha!  (With  deep  feeling)  What's  she  to 
me  now?  Do  you  know  she  led  me  on — tossed  me 
over?  I  tell  you,  she's  nothing  to  me.  So  why 
should  I  do  anything  for  her  sake  when  she  doesn't 
care  for  me  the  way  I  want — not  a  bit — not  a  bit. 

(He  sinks  into  the  chair,  overcome  by  his  emo 
tions.  MRS.  HARRINGTON  suffers  with  him 
but  tries  to  console.  Pause.) 

KING 

What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it,  Jasper?  (JASPER 
laughs.)  You  love  her,  don't  you?  (Silence.)  Has 


26  EMBERS 

she  changed  any?  Is  she  any  different  now,  any  the 
less  worthy  herself,  just  because  she  didn't  happen  to 
care  for  you?  Was  it  her  fault  she  didn't?  Can  one 
help  those  things?  (Pause.)  Did  she  really  "lead 
you  on"?  (Quickly)  Now  be  fair  to  her!  Didn't 
you  just  mistake  her  frank  open  companionship,  her 
sympathy,  her  interest  ?  You  are  not  the  first.  (  MRS. 
HARRINGTON  understands.) 

JASPER 
(Quietly) 
You're  laughing  at  me. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
1  r^fcp^^Hur*  / 

JASPER 
(Seriously) 

You  think  I'll  get  over  it  soon! 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
He  has  always  cared. 

KING 

It  matters  little  how  it  is  to  be:  it's  real  now,  eh? 
Very  real,  and  I  can't  laugh  with  others  at  an  honest 
love — if  the  girl  is  worth  while.  (Measuring  effect) 
But  I  don't  think  this  girl  is  worth  while — not  from 
your  actions. 


EMBERS  27 

JASPER 

(Rising  ominously) 
What  do  you  mean? 

KING 
(With  intention) 

You  make  me  believe  it's  only  your  vanity  that's 
hurt.  That  she's  some  frivolous,  flirting  coquette — 

JASPER 
(Firmly,  as  KING  has  desired) 

Mother,  he  can't  insult —  (Turning,  firmly) 
Please  don't  say  anything  against  her,  Mr.  King. 

KING 
(Bluntly) 

Have  I  said  anything  worse  than  you  have  been 
doing  against  her?  (JASPER  halts.  After  a  pause 
KING  continues  with  great  tenderness  and  persuasion. 
MRS.  HARRINGTON  held.)  Listen,  Jasper,  haven't 
you  been  trying  to  forget  when  it  might  be  more 
worthy  to  remember  her?  You've  been  denying  her 
worth  to  yourself  when  you  should  be  glorying  that 
you've  seen  it,  eh?  You've  been  trying  to  make  the 
best  of  her  a  derision,  haven't  you?  When  to  you 
it  should  be  an  inspiration  and  an  aspiration.  Now, 
shouldn't  it?  Think.  Haven't  you  begun  to  smirch 


28  EMBERS 

her  white  gown  a  little — dragging  it  with  you  through 
the  soiled  hours, — when  you  should  be  keeping  it  your 
emblem  of  purity  and  goodness.  Can't  you  see  you've 
begun  to  wallow  in  the  mud  instead  of  bending  your 
knees  and  thanking  God  a  worth-while  woman  has 
come  into  your  life!  (Pause.)  And  you  say  I'm  in 
sulting  her.  What  have  you  begun  to  do?  What 
have  you  been  doing? 

(JASPER  turns,  realizes,  and  looks  before  him, 
silent.  MRS.  HARRINGTON  gazes  long  at 
KING.  They  stand  on  either  side  of  JASPER. 
KING  continues  more  lightly.) 

Come,  come — you're  not  a  wreck,  are  you?  But 
don't  you  see  a  preachy  old  man  of  the  world  is  trying 
to  help  you  work  this  out  to  your  own  profit?  Can't 
you  understand  if  you've  found  a  woman  who  is 
worth  your  love,  you  are  richer?  You  may  not  be 
able  to  be  faithful  to  your  ideal  through  the  hot  years 
of  youth,  but  it  is  at  least  something  to  be  working 
towards.  And,  Jasper,  if  some  men  keep  decent  it  is 
because  they  wish  to  be  what  the  best  women  think 
them. 

JASPER 
And  where  is  the  reward? 


KING 
If  one  seeks  rewards  they  only  lie  within  one's  self. 


EMBERS  29 

JASPER 
(Not  convinced) 

That's  one  of  those  life-theories  that  sound  well 
but  can't  be  lived. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

(Hurt) 
Jasper ! 

KING 
(Smiling) 

That's  right;  you're  in  the  mood  to  doubt  as  I  am 
to  convince.  (Pause.)  Jasper,  what  I  have  told  you 
has  not  been  a  theory.  (Sacredly)  It's  been  a — a 
practice! 

(JASPER  bows.  MRS.  HARRINGTON  glances 
quickly  at  KING,  and  throughout  the  following 
shows  clearly  her  growing  realization  of  how 
much  she  has  meant  to  him  during  the  years.) 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
You  musn't — 

KING 

(Simply  and  slowly) 

It's  not  too  tragic  to  tell  you  now.  It's  been  the 
most  beautiful  thing  in  life.  I  was  about  your  age 


30  EMBERS 

when  I  knew  her  first.  She  became  all  that  the 
woman  you  care  for  is  to  you.  She  didn't  love  me 
either.  (Finally  without  bitterness)  That  was  all. 
But  she'd  always  been  fair  to  me  throughout.  You 
see  our  stories  are  alike  somewhat,  eh?  With  me, 
there  was  no  one  before  and  no  one  since.  (MRS. 
HARRINGTON  conceals  her  tears.)  She  was  no  mere 
illusion,  either.  (With  great  conviction)  No:  she 
was  what  men  call  an  ideal.  I  measured  all  by  her. 
Others  came.  Oh!  the  flesh  was  not  always  true, 
perhaps  because  the  world  forgives  the  humanity  in 
us  men;  but  the  best  in  me  was:  always  reaching  to 
what  I  knew  she  would  ask  of  me,  if  she  had  cared. 
So  all  the  empty  years,  the  thought  of  her  has  been 
leading  me  on.  I  declined  this  easy  offer  and  accepted 
that  difficult  task,  because,  when  in  doubt,  I  went  to 
a  few  letters,  a  stolen,  faded  picture  in  a  locket,  and 
some  crushed  flowers — they  kept  her  clearly  before 
me;  they  told  me  somehow  the  right  thing  to  do.  I 
owe  all  to  her.  It's  been  hard  at  times,  but  I  am 
grateful  that  I  could  even  love  her  purely  without 
hope.  (Half  looking  toward  MRS.  HARRINGTON) 
That  was  the  great  resolve  hidden  from  everybody: 
to  be  worthy  of  my  own  love  for  her! 

JASPER 

(Murmuring  reverently) 
Mr.  King! 

KING 

It's  not  the  way  of  the  world,  Jasper.     Most  people 
wince  and  forget.     True.     But  I  want  you  to  know 


EMBERS  31 

this.     You.     To  start  right  and  to  see  it  can  be  done 
if  one  loves  enough  and  only  once. 

(Pause.  JASPER  very  silent,  his  head  bowed. 
KING  looks  at  MRS.  HARRINGTON,  the  longing 
of  years  there.  She  is-  spellbound.  A  curious 
new  light  breaks  through  her  tear-stained  eyes. 
She  is  bewildered,  confused  with  her  own  emo 
tions,  hesitates,  turns,  crosses  softly,  and  sits  by 
the  fire,  hiding  her  face.  A  sob  is  heard. 
Pause  and  silence.  MRS.  HARRINGTON  ab 
sently  pokes  the  dying  embers  into  a  new  blaze. 
The  clock  strikes  the  half  hour.  The  door 
softly  opens,  and  MAID  stands  there.) 

MAID 
Excuse  me,  Mr.  Jasper,  the  'phone. 

JASPER 

(  Uninterested) 
Who  is  it? 

MAID 
He  said  you'd  know  who?     He's  been  waiting  at — 

JASPER 

(Helplessly) 
Mother— 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
Tell  him  Mr.  Jasper  will  not  come  to-night. 


32  EMBERS 

JASPER 

Nor  to-morrow.  (MAID  bows  and  exits,  closing 
door.  JASPER  rises.)  Mr.  King,  there's  one  thing 
I'd  like  to  ask  you.  Did  she  ever  know? 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

(Quickly) 
You  musn't  ask  that,  Jasper. 

KING 

She  learned  too  late. 

JASPER 

(With  vigorous  determination) 
Mother,  I'll  write  Ethel,  and  tell  her  now,  that  I — 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
(For  KING) 

Yes,  do.  A  woman  ought  to  know  that  she  means 
something  to  a  man.  For  then,  perhaps  in  her  own 
little  life  she  would  try  to  be  more  what  he  thinks 
her. 

JASPER 
I'll  do  it  now.     You'll  wait  here  for  me,  Mr.  King? 


EMBERS  33 

KING 

(Businesslike) 
You  will  sail  with  me? 

JASPER 
When  do  you  leave? 

KING 
Wednesday.     Ten.     Campania. 

JASPER 
(  Turning) 
But,  mother — ? 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
I'll  help  you  get  ready,  my  boy. 

JASPER 

I  shouldn't  go,  mother.  We've  been  so  much  to 
gether,  you  and  I, — 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
(Kisses  him  tenderly) 

I've  had  you  longer  than  most  mothers.  I've  al 
ways  been  waiting  for  this  time  of  parting.  I  am 
ready. 


34  EMBERS 

JASPER 

(Hesitating) 
But  oughtn't  I — 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
(With  deep  feeling) 

You  should  not  be  held  by  false  obligations.  You 
owe  nothing  to  me.  I  have  your  love.  What  you 
will  make  of  yourself,  by  yourself,  will  be  my  reward 
for  the  care.  Go,  my  boy:  I  shall  miss  you:  but  I 
shall  not  regret.  You  have  your  life  to  live  and  make. 
No  matter  what  happens,  you  will  always  have  my 
faith,  my  understanding,  and  my  love.  (KiNG  has 
controlled  himself  with  difficulty.) 

JASPER 

Mr.  King,  it  must  have  been  hard  for  you  to  tell 
me  about—  Believe  me,  I  appreciate  it,  and  I'll  try 
to  be  worthy  of  your  confidence,  mother's  faith,  and — 
the  other  one.  (Good-naturedly)  I  don't  know  so 
very  much  about  you,  sir — but  mother  does.  I'll  get 
her  to  tell  me.  Besides,  she's  got  hundreds  of  clip 
pings  and  things  about  your  career  and  speeches.  I'll 
run  through  them  with  her.  I  never  could  see  why 
she  kept  them. 

(He  exits,  leaving  door  open.  The  two  are 
alone,  and  step  nearer  each  other,  with  sup 
pressed  emotion.  They  speak  quietly  so  that 
JASPER  will  not  hear  through  open  door;  thus, 
still  keeping  him  in  scene.) 


EMBERS  35 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
What  can  I  say? 

KING 

Nothing.  You  should  never  have  known  but  for 
the  boy. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
He  has  brought  us  together — again. 

KING 

Just  to  say  good-by?  (Silence.)  Is  it  too  late? 
(She  looks  at  him  in  doubt.)  I  forgot:  you  never 
loved  me! 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
(Half  dreamingly) 

Seeing  you  again,  hearing  you  speak  this  way,  re 
calls  something  I  believe  I  felt  for  some  one,  some 
dream — long  ago.  (She  is  puzzled,  looks  into  his 
eyes,  and  shakes  her  head  kindly.)  But  you've  wor 
shiped  a  false  ideal  of  me  all  these  years. 

KING 
I  have  seen  you  again — as  a  mother.     I  know. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

You  don't  know.  I  have  done  the  unpardonable 
in  your  eyes.  I  am  not  the  woman  you  think  me — 


36  EMBERS 

nor  mother.  (With  an  effort)  I  told  you  I  couldn't 
reproach  Jasper  in  all  this,  because  I  knew  I  was  to 
blame  for  his  weakness.  Oh,  I  love  him  so;  but  I 
wasn't  fair  to  him — to  his  character  at  the  start — 
because — because  my  boy  was  born  of  a  loveless  mar 
riage.  (Pause:  Looking  into  his  eyes.)  You  never 
thought  your  ideal  woman  would — ? 

KING 

No. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

(Helplessly) 

You  see.  (Pause.  She  loses  control  of  her  surg 
ing  emotion,  and  becomes  unnaturally  agitated.)  I 
don't  understand  myself  to-night — here  (Hand  on 
heart) — but  I'm  wondering  what  feeling  makes  me 
call  for  you,  Mason,  to  help  him  I  love  most ! ! 

(He  starts,  comes  closer,  as  though  suppressing 
a  new  hope.) 

KING 

You've  shown  me  we  grow  by  the  way  we  accept 
consequences.  In  some  strange,  different  way  than 
I  thought,  you  have  become  even  more  perfect  than 
I  knew  you  were.  Listen,  Ruth. 

(He  moves  still  closer.  JASPER  re-enters  with 
a  new  energy.  They  look  at  one  another. 
JASPER  halts,  and  finishes  tearing  up  a  letter. 


EMBERS  37 

MRS.  HARRINGTON  makes  a  motion  of  fear 
and  uncertainty  that  perhaps  he  may  not  be  so 
strong  as  he  had  previously  indicated.) 


JASPER 

I  didn't  tell  you  how  shed  written  me — that  she'd 
heard  what  I  was  doing — that  she  was  hurt  and  sorry 
'cause  I  hadn't  been  strong.  Well,  I've  just  been 
thinking  I'm  pretty  much  of  a  coward  to  be  writing. 
I'm  not  writing:  I'm  going  to  see  her,  to  tell  her 
what  I'm  going  to  do.  It  won't  be  easy,  but  I  shan't 
let  her  suffer  on  my  account. 


MRS.  HARRINGTON 

(Joyed) 
Jasper ! 

KING 

Good.     I'll  give  you  a  lift  on  the  way. 

JASPER 

(Has  crossed  and  thrown  up  the  shade.    Moonlight 
streams  in) 

Your   cab    is    there!     I'll    be   back   soon,    mother. 
(He  takes  up  coat,  and  exits,  leaving  door  open.) 


38  EMBERS 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 
(Greatly  joyed) 

Now   I   am   sure  of  him — as   I   have  always  been 
of  you. 

(He  offers  his  hand  in  parting:  she  slowly 
takes  it.  They  show  in  a  quiet,  subdued  man 
ner  that  it  is  the  first  time  their  hands  have 
touched  in  years.) 

KING 

Good-by. 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

(Quietly) 
For  a  time? 

KING 

(Significantly) 
We'll  put  it  that  way. 

(They  look  into  each  other's  eyes.  Then  he 
stiffens  up;  controlling  himself,  and  exits,  clos 
ing  door  between  them.  MRS.  HARRINGTON 
leans  back  against  it.  The  moonlight  from 
the  window  floods  the  door  and  shows  upon 
her  face  a  look  of  mingled  hope  and  joy,  in 
definitely  touched  with  a  senserof  mystery.) 


EMBERS  39 

MRS.  HARRINGTON 

I  wonder — ff  I —     (Her  hand  steals  to  her  heart) 
-I  wonder. 

(She    stands    there    silent.     The    outer    door 
closes.     Then  she  smiles.) 


VERY   SLOW  CURTAIN 


THE  FAILURES 


THE  PEOPLE 

THE  MAN,  an  Artist. 
THE  WOMAN. 

SCENE 
The  parlatorio  of  a  small  apartment  in  Rome. 


THE  FAILURES* 

/j  DOORWAY  from  the  stairs  without  opens 
/m  upon  a  simple  little  room.  The  lace-cur- 
**-  ~*~  tained  windows  on  one  side  conceal  a  bal 
cony  from  which,  in  the  distance,  the  Via  Bondinelli 
may  be  seen.  Directly  opposite  these  windows  there 
is  a  fireplace  above  which  rests  an  odd  mirror  with 
painted  putti  enfolding  it.  A  door,  hidden  by  a  jaded, 
beaded  curtain,  leading  into  the  bedroom,  is  near  this. 
A  sofa-chair  by  the  coal-Boulet  fire;  some  smaller 
chairs  and  a  table  complete  the  furnishings.  The 
room  has  not  taken  on  a  personal  note:  it  seems  de 
tached  from  whatever  could  happen  in  it — just  a  place. 
The  sun  is  burning  through  the  windows,  and,  as  the 
play  proceeds,  it  glows  into  a  dull  red,  finally  fading 
while  the  fire  alone  tints  the  room  more  and  more 
gently. 

THE  WOMAN  is  seated  by  the  window,  looking 
intently  through  the  lace  curtains.  She  is  evidently 
awaiting  somebody.  She  is  about  thirty,  dark,  with 
a  suggestion  of  deep  capabilities  and  little  will.  Her 
charm  is  more  compelling  than  her  actual  beauty. 

*  Copyright,  1911,  by  George  Middleton.  All  rights 
reserved. 

43 


44  THE  FAILURES 

Upon  her  face  rests  a  vague  suspense.     She  is  in  deep 
mourning. 

There  is  a  long  pause:  suddenly  her  face  lights  up; 
she  rises,  watches  anxiously  a  moment,  then  relaxes — 
disappointed.  In  her  hand  she  holds  a  crumpled  tel 
egram,  which  she  smooths  out  and  rereads.  The 
clock  slowly  strikes  five,  and  she  crosses  to  it,  indicat 
ing  her  expected  visitor  is  late.  She  stands  before  the 
fire  a  second,  kisses  the  telegram,  puts  it  in  her  dress — 
recrosses  to  the  window  again  slowly.  In  a  few  sec 
onds  her  sharp  intake  of  breath  shows  some  one  is 
coming.  She  watches,  fascinated,  yet  strangely  puz 
zled.  She  goes  up  to  the  door  and  leaves  it  open. 
Then  she  controls  herself,  comes  down  to  the  fire, 
turns  and  waits.  After  another  pause  THE  MAN 
enters.  He  sees  her:  she  gives  a  start,  stopped  appar 
ently  by  his  changed  appearance.  He  slowly  closes 
the  door  behind  him,  and  stands  there.  They  are 
alone  and  silent,  and  controlled. 

THE  MAN  is  tall,  thin,  eyes  deep-set  and  yearning, 
with  features  once  clear-cut,  now  blurred  subtly.  He 
is  a  man  of  halted  potentials;  he  suggests  a  locked 
tragedy. 

THE  WOMAN 
You  are  late. 

THE  MAN 

(After  a  pause) 
Yes. 


THE  FAILURES  45 

THE  WOMAN 
(Slowly  also) 
You  never  were  late. 

THE  MAN 
Five  years  change. 

THE  WOMAN 

Some  of  us.  (Looking  at  him)  It  has  you — 
greatly. 

THE  MAN 
Yes,  greatly. 

THE  WOMAN 
I  have  come  a  long  way  across  the  seas  to  your  city. 

THE  MAN 

(Simply) 
I  have  never  left  it. 

THE  WOMAN 

I  knew  you  were  waiting.  (His  face  shades  a  bit 
unnoticed.)  Do  you  understand  why  I  am  here — 
now? 

THE  MAN 

(Calmly) 
Your  husband  is  dead! 


46  THE  FAILURES 

THE  WOMAN 

(Surprised) 
You  knew? 

THE  MAN 
That  could  be  the  only  reason. 

THE  WOMAN 

It  was  a  few  months  ago — at  home.  If  he  had 
been  younger  he  might  have — but  he  suffered  little. 
I  waited  only  as  long  as  was  necessary  afterwards. 
I  managed  to  get  this  same  apartment.  It  hasn't 
changed  so  very  much  with  the  years,  has  it? 

(They  look  about.  He  seems  to  linger  on  the 
objects:  finally  his  eye  rests  upon  the  sofa- 
chair:  she  follows  his  gaze.) 

THE  MAN 
Even  that. 

THE  WOMAN 
(Smiles  fondly  in  recollection) 

Yes:  where  you  read  to  me  so  often  those  few 
months  we  were  alone  and  happy.  To  me  it  seems 
like  yesterday — 

THE  MAN 

To  you,  yes.  (He  half  shrugs  his  shoulders  and 
arouses  himself  from  a  settling  mood.)  So  you  have 
sent  for  me  at  last. 


THE  FAILURES  47 

THE  WOMAN 

(Happily) 
As  soon  as  I  arrived. 

THE  MAN 
(Sharply) 
Why? 

THE  WOMAN 
(With  exhilaration) 
Why? — Because  now  I  am  free. 

THE  MAN 

(With  measured  effect) 
But  what  has  that  to  do  with  me? 

THE  WOMAN 

(Simply) 
I  have  come  to  marry  you. 

(They   gaze  at   each   other  but  do    not   move 
nearer. ) 

THE  MAN 

Haven't  we  both  seen  that  marriage  can  keep  apart 
those  who  love?  Perhaps  I  have  grown  afraid  of  its 
power. 


48  THE  FAILURES 

THE  WOMAN 

So  have  I.  (She  shudders.)  Yes;  it  is  terrible 
when  love  is  dead.  I  must  not  think  of  those  years: 
they  were  frightful.  (She  comes  closer.)  But,  dear, 
it  is  different  with  us;  you  and  I  who  have  known 
love,  who  do. 

THE  MAN 
It  is  too  late  with  you  and  me — too  late. 

THE  WOMAN 
(Scarcely  realizing) 
Too  late?     (Intuitively)   There  is  somebody  else? 

THE  MAN 

No.  That  problem  was  saved  me:  one  doesn't 
suffer  a  second  time  willingly. 

THE  WOMAN 

Then,  then — oh,  no :  it  can't  be ;  you — you  no  longer 
love  me? 

THE  MAN 

Say  rather  I  have  learned  really  to  know  you  dur 
ing  the  absence,  and  that  has  made  things  different. 

THE  WOMAN 
Different? 


THE  FAILURES  49 

THE  MAN 
You  are  not  what  I  thought  you:  you  must  pass — 

THE  WOMAN 

(Sinking  in  chair,  dazed) 

After  all  that,  I  must  pass!  (Losing  control) 
Then  why  did  you  let  me  see  you  again?  Why  did 
you  come  here  in  this  room  of  ours?  Why  didn't  you 
write  me?  Anything  else. 

THE  MAN 
(With  cold  incisiveness) 

Because  I'm  not  the  coward  to  dodge  a  difficult 
situation.  It  concerns  your  life.  You  have  a  right 
to  demand  and  receive  an  explanation.  I  can't  let 
you  be  tortured,  as  I  was,  through  inference  and  im 
agination.  /  want  to  be  fair — if  that  is  ever  possible 
between  men  and  women. 

THE  WOMAN 

It's  not  a  time  to  be  proud:  I  love  you  too  much. 
(He  is  unmoved.)  To-day,  I  wanted  only  to  feel: 
now  you  make  me  think.  It's  hard  when  I  expected — 
but,  you  see,  I'm — I'm  calm.  (She  soon  masters  her- 
self  completely.)  You  say  you  have  learned  to  know 
me  during  the  absence.  How?  Has  one  word  passed 
between  us? 


50  THE  FAILURES 

THE  MAN 
That  was  our  agreement  with  him. 

THE  WOMAN 

Yet  you  must  have  felt  the  messages  I  sent  you 
every  hour:  you  never  left  me  for  a  moment.  You 
knew  mei  as  no  man  ever  knew  me. 

THE  MAN 

You  knew  love  for  the  first  time:  you  revealed 
yourself — that's  all. 

THE  WOMAN 
(Leaning  forward) 
And  you  did  love  that  woman  who  was? 

THE  MAN 
Yes, — to  the  dregs. 

THE  WOMAN 
(Eagerly) 

Then  how,  how  have  I  changed?  Tell  me  one 
single  fact  to  show  I  am  different  than  you  thought 
me! 

THE  MAN 

There  is  only  one  fact  since  you  ask  it:  you  stayed 
with  him:  you  continued  to  wear  his  name  and  his 
ring  but  you  loved  another  man. 


THE  FAILURES  51 

THE  WOMAN 

So  that  was  ft.  (She  puts  her  hands  silently  before 
her  face.) 

THE  MAN 

You  seem  to  forget  the  darkness  that  was  closing 
in  upon  your  married  life  before  I  came:  the  staring 
of  your  two  naked  egos,  the  seeing  each  a  stranger, 
the  boredom,  the  starved  hours,  the  reach  toward  me 
to  save  you. 

THE  WOMAN 
(Interrupting) 

No,  no,  one  never  forgets.  I  knew  my  own  lie, 
only  he  loved  me  in  spite  of  all.  What  else  could  we 
have  done,  after  we  told  him  about  ourselves? 

THE  MAN 

You  forget,  too,  I  gave  you  the  strength  to  stay 
with  him  the  time  he  demanded  to  test  our  love  by 
separation — before  he  would  let  you  go  "  easily." 

THE  WOMAN 

Yes.  You  said :  "  We  must  not  build  our  happiness 
upon  a  broken  life."  And  my  crime  was  in  being 
true  to  the  strength  you  had  given  me. 


Not  exactly. 


THE  MAN 

(Cynically) 


52  THE  FAILURES 

THE  WOMAN 
What  then? 

THE  MAN 
(Hesitating) 
Something  happened  to  me. 

THE  WOMAN 
It's  no  time  to  hesitate.     Go  on. 

THE  MAN 

When  you  left  here  I  knew  I  was  loved  for  the 
first  time.  I  had  entered  into  my  man's  inheritance; 
nothing  before  had  counted:  through  you  I  had 
touched  the  rim  of  life,  and  it  seemed  to  whirl  me 
over  the  seas  and  mountains.  I  had  told  you  love 
would  summon  my  forces  with  the  brush  to  their  full 
est  expresion,  for  in  myself  I  desired  the  mere  con 
sciousness  that  you  loved  me  to  drive  me  on  to  all 
that  you  had  expected  of  me. 

THE  WOMAN 
(Who  eagerly  followed  his  words) 

Yes,  yes;  you  know  I  sought  it,  too. — Ah,  how 
your  words  sweep  me  back!  Dear,  don't  you  know 
I  could  not  have  left  you  then,  at  all  if  I  had  not 
thought  that? 


THE  FAILURES  53 

THE  MAN 

(Cynically) 

Couldn't  you?  I  wonder.  (She  is  hurt  by  his 
doubt.)  But  listen:  I  spiritualized  everything  to  keep 
me  strong  in  parting;  I  think  I  half  believed  it,  too, 
till  you  had  actually  gone.  And  then — 

THE  WOMAN 
Then? 

THE  MAN 

Then  I  saw  I  couldn't  exist  on  the  heights  alone: 
the  air  was  too  rare,  and  I  had  to  come  down  into 
the  valleys  where  the  wTorld  sleeps  and  lives.  I  had 
misread  myself.  It  wasn't  only  spirit:  there  was 
something  more  insistent  than  the  hope  of  what  might 
be  in  time:  it  was  the  sharp  cry  of  the  moment.  (He 
pauses.)  I  loved  you  too — humanly. 

THE  WOMAN 
(  Unabashed) 
I  know.     I  know.      (Long  pause.)     Go  on. 

THE  MAN 

And  with  the  months  there  was  that  cry  for  you, 
for  the  sound  of  your  voice,  the  touch  of  your  fingers 
on  my  arm,  the  perfume  which  meant  you — - 


54  THE  FAILURES 

THE  WOMAN 

(Moved) 
I  met  you  everywhere. 

THE  MAN 

I  tried  to  forget  by  thinking  of  your  belief  in  my 
work.  But,  what  were  my  pictures  when  my  hand 
shook  with  the  beat  of  my  blood?  Then,  I  ceased 
to  see  you  as  a  force:  it  was  only  the  woman  who 
haunted  me  (Bitterly)  and  always — always  like  a 
sharp  dagger  thrust  I  would  realize  she  was  with 
another  man! 

THE  WOMAN 
(Quickly) 

Whom  I  did  not  love,  to  whom  I  could  give 
nothing. 

THE  MAN 

But  you  were  with  him!  That  was  the  grinding 
edge.  He  could  see  you,  touch  you,  be  kind  to  you. 

THE  WOMAN 

He  saw  only  surfaces:  all  the  rest  had  ceased  before 
you  came. 

THE  MAN 

(Big) 
But  you  were  with  him! 


THE  FAILURES  55 

THE  WOMAN 

(Feebly) 
Couldn't  you  remember  I  loved  you? 

THE  MAN 

I  tried.  If  it  had  been  only  spirit  I  could  have 
tucked  it  away  tenderly  in  lavender  and  lace,  and 
kept  it  apart  from  the  humanity  in  and  about  me. 
But  it  wasn't:  it;  was  love  I  was  not  ashamed  of — as 
it  ^bnuld  be  between  man  and  woman — with  the 
spirit  there,  high  and  strong,  yet  rooted  below  in  the 
facts  of  life! 

THE  WOMAN 

How  I  understand !  How  you  must  have  suffered ! 
(Almost  inaudibly)  It  was  the  same  with  me. 

THE  MAN 
(Emphatically) 

But,  in  spite  of  everything,  I  was  faithful  to  what 
you  wished,  until — 

THE  WOMAN 
(Breathlessly) 
Until- 

THE  MAN 

One  thought  cut  away  all  my  defenses:  it  was  that 
which  cheapened  you  in  my  eyes. 


56  THE  FAILURES 

THE  WOMAN 

(Cut) 
Cheapened?     Oh — not  that. 

THE  MAN 
(Slowly) 

Yes;  and  when  you  became  less,  love  somehow 
seemed  too  exacting  and  (Very  bitterly)  there  was 
nothing  to  keep  me  stronger  than  the  men  about  me. 

THE  WOMAN 
(  Understanding) 

I  have  tried  never  to  think  of  those  others  who 
might —  (Turning  aside  and  almost  whispering) 
But  I  knew  you  were  a  man.  Oh,  don't  bring  their 
shadows  here. 

THE  MAN 
(Hesitating) 

I  am  making  you  suffer  too  much.  I  can't  soften 
the  facts.  Shall  I  go  on? 

THE  WOMAN 

Yes:  I  am  used  to  suffering.  It  is  best  you  finish. 
(She  wipes  her  eyes.)  What — what  was  it  I  did  to 
cheapen  love? 


THE  FAILURES  57 

THE  MAN 
As  I  said:  you  stayed  with  him. 

THE  WOMAN 
(Almost  fiercely) 
Do  you  think  that  was  easy? 

THE  MAN 

(Strongly) 
Perhaps  it  was  easier  than  coming  to  me! 

(She  is  stunned,  quivers,  and  turns  away  silent. 
She  almost  staggers  to  a  chair,  and  sits  down 
with  head  bowed:  he  tries  to  control  his  bit 
terness,  but  it  escapes  more  and  more  in  spite 
of  him.) 

I  waited  for  him  to  let  you  go  willingly,  to  give  you 
your  promised  chance  for  happiness.  But  as  the 
alloted  time  passed  by  and  nothing  happened,  my 
imagination  pictured  the  possibilities  of  the  situation. 
I  knew  how  you  could  deceive,  not  always  to  protect 
yourself  but  to  save  others.  Were  you  saving  him — 
making  it  entirely  tolerable?  Were  you  concealing 
your  deeper  life  completely,  and  tricking  him  with  an 
affected  happiness?  Why  did  you  go  on  as  in  the 
past?  Was  he  holding  you  by  Pity?  If  for  his  love 
he  wouldn't  do  anything,  why  didn't  you  for  yours? 


58  THE  FAILURES 

THE  WOMAN 

(Confused) 
Me?     But — but,  I  couldn't  hurt  him! 

THE  MAN 

I  knew  your  capacity  for  suffering,  and  guessed  you 
were  suffering,  but  was  that  all  love  had  grown 
to  mean  to  you — an  excuse  for  suffering?  Were  you, 
too,  luxuriating,  like  so  many  other  women,  in  your 
self-inflicted  martyrdom  and  sacrifice,  forgetting  that 
I — the  man  you  loved — was  with  you  on  the  altar? 
Were  you  sheltering  your  inactivity  beneath  spiritual 
sophistries — jagged,  rusty,  death-bearing  ideals  of  duty, 
pity,  and  the  like — 

THE  WOMAN 

(Trying  to  interrupt  him  throughout) 
Stop — stop — ! 

TPIE  MAN 

— or  were  you  willingly  shirking  the  responsibilities 
and  the  obligations  to  the  love  you  had  inspired? — 
Don't  you  see  how  the  uncertainty  almost  drove  me 
mad? 

THE  WOMAN 
(Primitively) 

Then  why  didn't  you  come  take  me? — Why? 
Why? 


THE  FAILURES  59 

THE  MAN 

Because  it  was  your  place  to  find  the  impulse  from 
within  yourself.  (She  is  confused.)  When  you 
didn't,  I  saw  you  were  a  moral  coward,  a  weak,  con 
ventional  woman  who  hadn't  the  courage  to  reach  out 
and  take  her  happiness.  (With  vehemence)  You 
stayed  on  in  the  house  with  a  man  you  did  not  love. 
That's  what  destroyed  everything  in  me — for  I  de 
spised  you. 

THE  WOMAN 
(Crushed) 

But,  didn't  you  understand?  Couldn't  you  some 
how?  Oh—! 

THE  MAN 

(With   slow    contempt) 
Yes,  I  understood :  it  was  the  line  of  least  resistance. 

THE  WOMAN 

(Desperately  defending  herself) 
No!  No! 

THE  MAN 
(Pressing  the  point) 
It  was  so  much  easier  to  be  conventional. 


60  THE  FAILURES 

THE  WOMAN 
I  knew  you  were  waiting  for  me.     I  knew — 

THE  MAN 

But  you  forgot  how  tired  one's  arms  could  be,  hold 
ing  them  out  endlessly.  (Slowly)  You  preferred  to  ac 
cept  the  conventional  protection  of  his  name,  because 
you  feared  the  parched  places  you  must  cross  to  come  to 
me;  you  dreaded  the  peering  eyes,  the  smirch  of  lips, 
the  shrug  of  shoulders.  So  you  mechanically  kept 
by  his  side,  starving  him,  starving  yourself,  and  starv 
ing  me.  But  now — now  that  his  protection  is  gone — 
it  is  easy  to  come! — it  is  no  effort;  you  need  my  pro 
tection.  Death  offers  the  gift,  not  you.  But  you  are 
conventional  to  the  end;  for  you  even  come  to  the 
man  you  love  wearing  the  mourning  weeds  of  him 
who  stood  between ! — 

(She  grasps  quickly  at  her  dress,  then  with  a 
deep  moan  sinks  upon  the  sofa-chair  amid 
stifled  sobs.  A  very  long  pause  follows.  He 
stands  looking  at  her,  betraying  only  bitterness.) 

THE  WOMAN 
(Completely  broken) 

Oh — what  a  miserable  failure  I  am.  How  you 
make  me  see  it.  You've  torn  off  everything.  God! — 
and — and  it's  all  true — true!  I  was  a  coward.  I 
am. 


THE  FAILURES  61 

THE  MAN 

(Nearer) 
There  may  have  been  things  I  did  not  know. 

THE  WOMAN 
(As  though  honest  with  herself  for  the  first  time) 

They  wouldn't  alter.     No:  it's  all  true  and  more. 

never  could  be  strong  alone.  With  you  I  felt 
capable  of  anything,  but  away,  alone — no — no.  I 
couldn't  face  what  would  have  to  be  gone  through. 
I  couldn't  take  that  first  step.  The  newspapers,  the 
gossip — everything.  I  didn't  dare  move  from  his  pro 
tection — for  he  did  protect  me — not  (With  self -dis 
gust)  not  because  he  loved  me — oh — that's  the  worst 
of  it.  That  all  ceased  in  him. 

THE  MAN 
When  he  thought  I  had  passed !     How  like  us  men ! 

THE  WOMAN 

Yes.  He  was  conventional,  too.  He  merely 
dreaded  the  talk — that — and  nothing  else.  I  kne\v  it 
and  despised  him.  But  he  wras  kind  in  his  way. 
That's  what  we  bartered  these  years:  that  was  our 
marriage.  I  could  not  shake  myself  free  from  the 
wall  that  held  me.  Somebody  has  always  taken  care 
of  me.  That's  why  I  married  him  when  I  was  left 
alone  as  a  girl.  That's  why  I  come  to  you.  Don't 


62  THE  FAILURES 

stop  me.  It's  all  true.  I  did  fear  the  parched  places 
and  I  knew  in  my  heart  that  only  when  he  had — could 
I  ever  come.  (She  shudders  and  struggles  with  her 
sobs.) 

THE  MAN 
(After  eying  her:  a  little  more  softly) 

Forgive  me.  If  I  had  been  stronger  I  would  have 
spared  you  this — lied  to  you  somehow,  and  made  it 
easier.  It  seems  like  dynamiting  a  butterfly.  But 
I've  been  thinking  these  phrases  and  they  just  came 
out.  Love  failed  me  and  I  failed  love.  I'm  not 
strong  any  more.  I  was  afraid  in  the  old  days  you 
expected  too  much  from  me.  Good-by. 

(He  starts  to  go:  she  rises,  halting  him,  at  the 
strange  tenderness  In  his  voice.) 

THE  WOMAN 

Yes.  I  did  expect  too  much  from  you.  I  was 
weak:  I  could  suffer,  yet  could  not  do  for  love.  But 
those  years  have  gone:  I  can  offer  no  defense  save 
that  through  them  all  I  did  not  know  I  was  harming 
you.  I  thought  you  were  strong  and  would  go 
grandly  on  to  your  destiny!  But  I  see  you  and  your 
work  needed  me.  That  is  harder  for  me  than  all 
you  have  said:  not  only  do  I  fall  beneath  your  ideal 
of  me  but  the  love  I  inspired  in  you  failed  to  keep 
you  "big." 


THE  FAILURES  63 

THE  MAN 
(Humbly) 
Yes. 

THE  WOMAN 

(She  comes  closer  to  him) 

You  have  blamed  me  with  the  selfishness  that  only 
lies  in  pent-up  bitterness,  and  you  have  forgotten  what 
you  have  done  to  me.  Look  at  me.  Straight  in  the 
eyes.  (He  reluctantly  does  so;  she  continues  re- 
proachfully)  What  have  you  done  with  all  those 
dreams  you  said  my  coming  had  brought  you? 
What  have  you  done  with  all  the  ambitions  which  I 
aroused?  Where  are  the  pictures  with  the  soul  of 
the  woman  you  loved  in  them?  Oh!  What  have 
you  done  with  your  own  love  for  me? 

THE  MAN 

Nothing,  nothing.  That's  the  other  reason  why 
it's  too  late.  You're  worthy  of  pity:  I  am  not  even 
worthy  of  that.  Now  we  both  understand. 

THE  WOMAN 
(Shaking  her  head  sadly) 

It  is  as  though  a  great  dream  lay  broken  between 

us — 

THE  MAN 
Yes,  I  feel  it,  too.     Neither  of  us  did  anything! 


64  THE  FAILURES 

THE  WOMAN 
(Slowly) 

Two  failures!  Where  love  had  so  much  to  offer. 
Two  failures! 

THE  MAN 

There  are  three.  Your  husband  failed  also.  In 
his  strength  while  he  loved  you,  he  might  have  made 
us  both  ashamed. 

THE  WOMAN 

And  ever  afterward  have  stood  between.  (The 
light  outside  is  gone.  Only  the  fire  leaps  and  colors 
them.  There  is  another  long  pause.)  How  dark  it 
has  become. 

THE  MAN 
I  must  be  going  out  into  the  blackness  again. 

THE  WOMAN 
Yes.     I  also,  later. 

THE  MAN 
(Lingers) 

Too  bad — too  bad.  When  love  might  have  done 
so  much.  How  we  have  abused  it — we  three.  I  sup 
pose  we  learn  to  find  our  true  value  in  loving.  Oh! 


THE  FAILURES  65 

The  shame  in  finding  so  much  alloy.     Love  is  only  for 
the  strong;  it  breaks  the  others. 


THE  WOMAN 
(Quickly} 

No — you're  wrong.  Does  love  lie  only  in  strength  ? 
(She  comes  to  him.)  Doesn't  love  ever  come  to  the 
:ired  and  weak?  Can't  one  be  just  a  plain,  helpless 
woman  craving  protection  of  the  man,  who,  in  turn, 
needs  a  bosom  for  his  tired  head?  Dear  One,  I  have 
no  pride  left.  I  am  that  weak  and  lonely  woman: 
you  are  that  tired  man.  We  have  nobody  else.  Be 
cause  you  failed  me,  my  love  is  no  less.  (With  pene 
tration)  Are  you  so  sure  your  love  for  me  is  dead? 

THE  MAN 
I  am  dead  inside. 

THE  WOMAN 
(Quickly) 

Are  you?  Are  you?  I'm  not.  I'm  proud  of  the 
life  that  lies  calling  beneath  the  self-pity,  beneath  the 
woman's  weakness  and  failure.  (Coming  very  close 
and  holding  his  hands.)  Don't  you  know  all  these 
years,  I,  too,  have  held  the  dream  of  you  close — close 
to  me — and  my  call  has  been  as  strong  as  yours. 


66  THE  FAILURES 

THE  MAN 
(Bitterly) 

Then  there  was  something — with  him?  (She  pro 
tests  as  he  turns  away.)  Of  course  not.  There  are 
some  things  a  woman  would  always  lie  about  to  an 
other  man! 

THE  WOMAN 

(Catching  the  jealous   note   in   his   voice,   she 

eagerly  puts  her  hand  on  his  shoulder; 

turning  him  to  her.     Pie  tries  to 

speak  but  is  swept  to  passion 

by  the  touch.) 

Dearest,  you  still  love  me. 

THE  MAN 
(Half  struggling  away) 

No.  I  tell  you — it's  over — dead — tossed  in  the 
rubbish  heap. 

THE  WOMAN 
(Vibrantly) 

This  has  always  been  between  us:  this  has  been 
alive  all  these  years,  and  I'm  not  ashamed  either. 

THE  MAN 
No!     No! 


THE  FAILURES  67 

THE  WOMAN 

We  can't  escape:  we've  been  blind  to-day.  Listen, 
I  love  you,  I  love  you,  and  you  love  me. 

THE  MAN 

(Trying  to  free  himself) 
It's  dead.     No ;  no. 

THE  WOMAN 

You  do!  You  do!  Your  anger  tells  me  so;  your 
cruelty,  the  bitterness,  and  the  hurt  in  your  heart  cries 
it.  If  I  were  meant  to  pass,  you  would  not  have 
come.  Kiss  me:  you  are  afraid  to  kiss  me — 

(He  stands,  looking  at  her,  caught  by  his  own 
feelings.  They  are  still  a  moment;  then  his 
head  lowers.  They  kiss.  She  falls  back,  half 
swooning,  in  his  arms.) 

THE  MAN 
Dearest.     Dearest.     (With  tenderness)   Dearest! — 

(He  takes  her  to  the  sofa-chair,  and  puts  her 
upon  it.  He  holds  her  hands,  and  sits  on  the 
rug  beside  her.  She  opens  her  eyes.) 

THE  WOMAN 
(Faintly) 

Ah!  The  tenderness  of  you,  too.  You  will  pro 
tect  me — watch  over  me.  I  know. 


68  THE  FAILURES 

THE  MAN 

Yes,     yes — for     always     now.     I    love    you. — It's 
stronger. 

(He  lowers  his  head;  she  feels  his  tears  and 
kisses  on  her  hands.     She  leans  over  him.) 

SLOW  CURTAIN 


THE  GARGOYLE 

A  STUDY  OF  A  TEMPERAMENT 


THE  PEOPLE 

CRAIG  ARLISS,  a  novelist 
VAUGHAN  BLAKESLEE,  a  wanderer 


SCENE 
A  house  in  the  suburbs. 


THE  GARGOYLE* 

P  t  F  HE  summer  moonlight  flowing  through  a  large 
f  French  balcony  window  at  the  right  discloses 
the  dim  outlines  of  a  curious,  clover-shaped 
studio.  A  door,  which  one  learns  opens  upon  a  stair 
way,  is  faintly  seen  at  the  back.  The  light  from  a 
lamp  upon  a  mantelpiece  near  a  bedroom  door,  at  the 
left,  suggests  more  clearly  the  interesting  collection  of 
prints  and  curios  placed  along  the  wall.  Some  book 
cases  are  noticed  amid  the  strange  melange  of  tasteful 
if  somewhat  eccentric  furniture.  At  a  table  near  the 
window,  ARLISS  is  seated  writing  persistently.  His 
cigar  has  gone  out,  and  as  he  pauses  to  relight  it,  one 
observes  that  he  is  tall,  almost  emaciated,  and  past 
the  meridian  of  life.  His  dark,  deep-set,  inquiring 
eyes  seem  the  only  thing  alive  about  his  sallow,  ascetic 
face.  His  thin,  sensitive  lips  are  bloodless  through 
continual  compression,  and  his  high  distinguished  fore 
head  is  lined  by  a  heavy  shock  of  black  hair.  When 
he  speaks  it  is  obvious  he  phrases  self-consciously. 
As  he  resumes  writing,  it  is  seen  that  his  fingers  are 
long  and  nervous,  really  conscious  of  the  things  they 
touch.  He  continues  under  apparent  inspiration  for 
some  time;  the  clock  striking  four  finally  interrupts 
him.  He  looks  up,  realizing  it  is  late.  He  glances 

*  Copyright,  1911,  by  George  Middleton.     All  rights  re 
served. 

71 


2  THE  GARGOYLE 

out  of  the  window  as  though  awaiting  somebody,  looks 
up  at  a  stone  gargoyle  projecting  outside,  half  grunts 
to  himself,  then  searches  among  his  papers  and  finds 
a  telegram  which  he  rereads  for  reassurance.  The 
faint  ring  of  a  bell  is  heard.  He  starts  up'  toward 
the  door  at  the  back,  but  hesitates  and  goes  to  the 
window  instead. 

ARLISS 
(Calling  out) 

Vaughan!  Vaughan!  At  last!  Wait;  I'll  throw 
the  key.  An  old  habit,  eh?  (He  takes  a  key  off  the 
table  and  throws  it  from  the  window.)  There,  right 
before  you.  You  haven't  forgotten  the  trick  of  that 
door?  (He  takes  the  lamp  from  the  table  and  goes 
up  to  the  door  at  the  back,  opening  it,  and  stepping 
outside  on  the  stairs.  He  holds  the  lamp  above  him.) 
Close  it.  Be  careful  of  that  turn.  Seventh  step. 
I'm  always  stumbling  over  it  myself. 

(A  slight  pause.  ARLISS  comes  into  the  room 
as  VAUGHAN  BLAKESLEE  enters.  ARLISS  lifts 
the  lamp  high,  and  the  two  men  face  each  other 
in  its  light.  Another  pause. 

VAUGHAN  BLAKESLEE,  still  in  his  early  thir 
ties,  of  handsome  if  somewhat  underlined 
features,  gives  indication,  through  a  certain 
marked  unkemptness,  of  the  same  native  refine 
ment  of  birth  and  sensibilities. 

ARLISS  calmly  offers  his  hand.  VAUGHAN  does 
not  take  it.) 


THE  GARGOYLE  73 

VAUGHAN 
We  are  alone? 

ARLISS 
Quite. 

VAUGHAN 
(Still  at  the  door) 
The  servants? 

ARLISS 
> 

Are  evils  I  am  compelled  to  tolerate  only  in  the  day 
time.  (VAUGHAN  sighs  in  relief,  and  enters  the 
room.  ARLISS  closes  the  door  and  comes  down  slowly 
to  the  telegram.)  You  said  it  was  something  "im 
portant." 

VAUGHAN 
I  came  straight  from  the  train. 

ARLISS 

Oh,  don't  apologize!  I'm  a  night  owl.  I've  been 
working.  (Referring  to  manuscript.)  Poor  crea 
tures!  They're  having  a  hard  time  .  .  .  Ohy  par- 
and  your -luggage? 

VAUGHAN 
I've  brought  none.     I'm  not  going  to  stay. 


74  THE  GARGOYLE 

ARLISS 
(Enigmatically ) 

Then  you  haven't  reached  the  bottom  yet.  (Pause.) 
I  never  persuade. 

VAUGHAN 
I  hardly  think  you  will  be  able  to,  this  time. 

ARLISS 

Your  room  has  always  been  waiting  for  you  these — • 
let  me  see — it's  two  years,  isn't  it? 

VAUGHAN 
In  time,  yes. 

ARLISS 

Whenever   you   are   ready   you    can   take   up   your 
old  life. 

VAUGHAN 

My  old  life,  ha!  ha!     I'd  have  to  be  the  same  per 
son  I  was,  wouldn't  I? 

ARLISS 

I  accept  the  correction.     Your  new  life  dating  from 
to-day. 


THE  GARGOYLE  75 

VAUGHAN 
(Sarcastically) 
Have  you  advice  to  give  me  about  that,  too? 

ARLISS 

Not  precisely;  but  I  might  hazard  a  guess,  though, 
that  when  you  are  ready  you  should  accept  Old  Gam- 
brill's  offer. 

VAUGHAN 
(Surprised) 

That  is  still  open  to  me  ?  Even  after  these  last  two 
years  ? 

ARLISS 

(Lighting  a  cigar) 
Certainly.     Old  Gambrill  understands,  too. 

VAUGHAN 
Understands? 

ARLISS 
Yes. 

VAUGHAN 
(Grimly) 
I  wonder.     (He  walks  up  and  down.) 


76  THE  GARGOYLE 

ARLISS 

Maturity  is  only  mental  vanity,  eh?  But  this  is 
a  good  chance  for  you,  Vaughan.  I'm  not  much  on 
business  affairs,  yet  I  think  your  father  would  have 
approved.  It's — I  have  it  here;  I  only  remember 
moods,  never  facts.  (He  takes  up  a  memorandum.) 
Twenty-five  hundred  at  the  start — six  months'  travel 
— 'rikshas,  mules,  and  so  forth — hard  work,  but  full 
of  color,  I  should  think — stimulating,  shoulder-rub 
bing — 

VAUGHAN 

(Crossing  close  to  him) 
Do  you  know  where  IVe  come  from? 

ARLISS 

Yes.  From  the  Devil.  You  went  to  shake  his 
hand;  he  looked  at  your  palm,  smiled,  shook  his  head, 
and  regretfully  sent  you  back  to  earth. 

VAUGHAN 
(Bitingly) 
Something  made  me  come  to  you. 

ARLISS 

(Covertly  watching  the  younger  man,  measuring 
him,  and  purposely  drawing  him  out) 

I  have  been  expecting  you  for  many  weeks. 


THE  GARGOYLE  77 

VAUGHAN 

I  said  nothing  about  coming  in  my  letters.  You 
received  them  all? 

ARLISS 

Every  one  of  them.  It  was  good  of  you  to  number 
them  as  I  suggested.  In  spite  of  your  bad  hand 
writing,  I  followed  you  in  great  detail  day  by  day. 

VAUGHAN 
Why  didn't  you  answer  them? 

ARLISS 
I  sent  my  card  and  a  check. 

VAUGHAN 
Do  you  know  why  I  took  your  money? 

ARLISS 
The  answer  is  obvious. 

VAUGHAN 
I  took  it  because  I  despised  you. 

ARLISS 

That's  splendid  psychology. 


78  THE  GARGOYLE 

VAUGHAN 

Oh,  you  can  sneer  at  me  now.  But  how -could  you 
— how  could  you  keep  sending  it  to  me?  How  could 
you  let  me  go  on  and  on — 

ARLISS 
(Calmly) 

What  you  were  doing  interested  me.  I  was  always 
glad  to  hear. 

VAUGHAN 
Glad? 

ARLISS 

Yes.  Even  after  your  letters  came,  so  eagerly 
awaited,  I  sharpened  my  pleasure  by  placing  them  on 
the  bookcase — there.  All  day  they  would  cry  out  to 
me,  but  never  till  night  did  I  release  their  tumbling 
words.  Then,  -under  the  black  mantle,  I  lived  with 
you  gloriously  through  it  all.  For  to  me  your  letters 
meant  experience — sensation. 

VAUGHAN 
So  that  was  why  you  did  it  ? 

ARLISS 

Alone  in  my  chair  I  felt  the  quick  rush  of  your 
life.  My  lips  bled  with  your  wine,  my  ears  burned 
with  your  music,  and  the  rouge  of  your  women  rubbed 
my  cheeks. 


THE  GARGOYLE  79 

VAUGHAN 
(Bitterly) 

And  /  paid.  /  lived  it.  /  suffered — while  you  sat 
comfortably  alone  in  your  chair.  HaJ  ha! 

ARLISS 

(Half  to  himself) 
That  was  the  only  way  I  could  do  it. 

VAUGHAN 

So  I  earned  the  money  you  sent  me.  I  was  ex 
periencing  for  you.  I  was  burning  the  wick  that  you 
might  see.  I  was  material — copy.  Oh,  I  might  have 
guessed,  for  I  heard  you  say  once :  "  Creation  sprang 
from  suffering." 

ARLISS 

And  you  very  rightly  deduce  it  is  generally  some 
body  else  who  pays.  We  artists  who  justify  ourselves 
forget  that. 

VAUGHAN 

I've  paid  long  enough.  I  didn't  come  to  take  up  my 
life  nor  Gambrill's  offer,  but  for  a  settlement  with 
you — an  accounting. 

ARLISS 

The  money  was  not  enough? 


8o  THE  GARGOYLE 

VAUGHAN 

No.     You  must  give  me  back  something  you  have 
taken  from  me. 

ARLISS 
What? 

VAUGHAN 
(Earnestly) 
My  ideals. 

ARLISS 
(Startled) 

Ideals?  Brave  images  in  the  sand  until  a  wave  has 
kissed  them. 

VAUGHAN 
My  self-respect. 

ARLISS 
The  vainest  of  all  vanities. 

VAUGHAN 

My  purity,  my  sense  of  honor,  my  dreams.  You 
must  give  them  back  to  me.  I  want  my  faith  ia-rimgs 
again.  I  want  to  be  the  old  Vaughan.  I'm  empty 
now — empty.  I  have  nothing  left. 

ARLISS 
But  disgust. 


THE  GARGOYLE  81 

VAUGHAN 
Yes,  disgust. 

ARLISS 

(Emphatically) 
And  something  else. 

VAUGHAN 

What  else?  Only  pain — pain  in  my  heart  for  every 
living  thing  that  breathes. 

ARLISS 
That's  it. 

VAUGHAN 

Yes;  down  in  the  depths  I've  wept  for  all  the  sins 
of  the  world,  for  I've  been  part  of  them  all.  I've  felt 
the  thrill  of  the  thief  and  the  hate  of  the  beggar,  for 
I,  too,  in  my  bitterness,  have  felt  the  impelling  impulse, 
and  when  the  impulse  was  born  my  judgment  died. 
God!  Don't  you  see  I've  lost  my  sense  of  right  and 
wrong?  I'm  stripped — stripped!  (He  sinks  bitterly, 
burying  his  head  in  his  arms.) 

ARLISS 

Aren't  your  phrases  a  bit  overseasoned  ?  That's  my 
literary  prerogative,  which  they  tell  me,  I  always  use. 
Come  now,  aren't  you  a  trifle  melodramatic? 


82  THE  GARGOYLE 

VAUGHAN 
(Rising  with  deliberate  calm) 

You  shall  take  me  seriously;  you  shall  see  I'm  in 
earnest.  I'm  not  a  youth  any  longer,  but  a  man  with 
life  washed  out  of  him.  You  are  responsible — do  you 
hear? — for  what  I  am.  I  was  beginning  to  find  my 
self,  to  argue  myself  out  of  it — beginning  to  kill  my 
grief.  ^  The  right  word  from  you  would  have  saved 
me — but  you  made  me  go  out  into  the  world,  knowing 
the  kind  of  life  I  would  lead,  encouraging  me  in  it. 
And  now  I've"  come  back  for  an  accounting.  (He 
comes  closer  with  great  earnestness.)  Give  me  back 
what  I've  lost.  Gan  you?-  Give  it  back,  all  of  it, 
for  I'm  dead  without  it,  anjUt  is  you  alone  who  have 
killed  me;  and  you  must  answer— first.  (He  slowly 
draws  a  pistol  from  his  pocket.) 

ARLISS 
(Enthusiastically  ) 

I  have  saved  you — I  have.  Now  you  have  reached 
the  bottom.  I'm  sure  of  it.  Don't  you  see,  Vaughan, 
what  I've  kept  for  you,  what  I've  given  you,  too; 
don't  you  see  it? 

VAUGHAN 
(After  a  pause) 

I  suppose  you  think  I  will  halt  because  I  do  not 
understand. 


THE  GARGOYLE  83 

ARLISS 
(With  great  earnestness) 

If  I  do  not  make  you  understand,  you  must  do  to 
me  as  you  intended  to. 

VAUGHAN 

Must  ? 

ARLISS 

Yes;  for  if  I  had  destroyed  all  in  you  I  should 
demand  it. 

VAUGHAN 

(Hesitating,  then  putting  the  pistol  upon  the  table) 
Well? 

ARLISS  ^ 

(Vigorously) 

Where  is  your  strength,  your  conviction?  I  shan't 
respect  your  intention  if  you  are  so  easily  turned  from 
it.  (VAUGHAN  reaches  for  the  pistol.  ARLISS  covers 
it.)  It's  not  death  I'm  afraid  of,  but  life.  It  would 
solve  my  problem  and  not  help  yours. 

VAUGHAN 

(Pointing  sarcastically  to  the  manuscript) 
You  talk  like  one  of  your  characters. 


84  THE  GARGOYLE 

ARLISS 
(Smiling) 

My  characters  are  only  my  own  different  attitudes 
toward  life.  (VAUGHAN  drops  the  pistol  on  the  table. 
There  is  a  pause  while  ARLISS  fingers  it.)  This  has 
flashed  like  the  proverbial  symbol  between  us.  Give 
it  to  me  of  your  own  free  will,  and  I  shall  know  that 
you  take  up  Gambrill's  offer  and  start  with  your  head 
high  and  your  manhood  sure. 

VAUGHAN 
(Savagely) 

There  is  no  use.  I  tell  you  I  have  no  will  left, 
only  impulse. 

ARLISS 
(Quickly) 

Then  I'll  meet  your  rpasmodic  melodrama  halfway. 
I'll  gamble  with  you  for  that  pistol  and  all  it  means. 

VAUGHAN 

Gamble?  Ha!  ha!  How?  By  "matching" 
miseries  like  pennies? 

ARLISS 
That  just  describes  it. 

VAUGHAN 
Is  this  some  scene  from  your  new  novel? 


THE  GARGOYLE  85 

ARLISS 
It's  a  bit  too  real  and  too  unnatural. 

VAUGHAN 

A  few  moments  cannot  alter  my  intention.  (He 
sits  down.) 

ARLISS 
(With  force) 

You  must  resent  every  word  I  tell  you;  you  must 
believe  me  in  spite  of  yourself.  Then  only  will  you 
be  convinced  that  what  I  did  for  you  was  right. 

VAUGHAN 

Then  you  do  acknowledge  it  was  deliberate?  That 
with  a  purpose  you  sent  me  out  to  be  what  I  was,  to 
become  what  I  am? 

ARLISS 
Yes,  deliberate. 

VAUGHAN 
Why? 

ARLISS 

There  was  a  chance  that  way.  Otherwise,  you 
might  have  become — 


86  THE  GARGOYLE 

VAUGHAN 
( Sarcastically ) 

— a  famous  novelist,  a  great  success;  "one  of  the 
mountain  peaks,"  they  call  you. 

ARLISS 
The  mountain  peaks  are  lonely. 

VAUGHAN 
As  if  loneliness  were  hard! 

ARLISS 
My  sort  of  loneliness  is. 

VAUGHAN 
Who's  melodramatic  now? 

ARLISS 

Hear  me  out.  Will  you  change  places  with  me?  I 
would  take  your  life  gladly,  stripped  and  naked  as 
you  think  it  is,  if  you  could  take  up  mine,  full  as  it 
seems  to  you. 

VAUGHAN 
I  suppose  I  ought  to  ask  you  to — 

ARLISS 

— to    show    my    side    of    the    penny?      Yes.      Trite 
as  it  may  seem,  I  was  young  once. 


THE  GARGOYLE  87 

VAUGHAN 

(Bitterly) 
Like  me;  I  know  that  beginning.     Go  on 

ARLISS 

And  I  soon  made  the  astonishing  discovery  that  the 
easiest  way  to  avoid  the  petty  worries  of  life  was  to 
deny  their  reality.  Instead  of  absorbing  them,  I 
squeezed  them  out  of  my  daily  living.  I — I — 

VAUGHAN 
But  what  has  this  to — 

ARLISS 

Wait.  I  didn't  realize  the  tyranny  of  this  com 
fortable  habit  until  I  faced  the  first  conscious  climax 
of  my  life.  (Stops  in  recollection:  VAUGHAN  becomes 
interested.)  Why  drape  the  fact  and  bury  it  beneath 
pretty  flowers?  My  heart  was  pounded  by  the  tiny 
fists  of  a  woman. 

VAUGHAN 

(With  impulsive  sympathy) 
You,  too?     I  never  knew. 

ARLISS 

How  beautifully  your  pity  leaped  toward  me  in 
spite  of  yourself !  I  like  that.  You  are  real. 


88  THE  GARGOYLE 

VAUGHAN 

I  know  what  it  is.  Was  it  the  same  sort  of  thing 
as  mine? 

ARLISS 
I  loved  her. 

VAUGHAN 
So  your  heart  was  broken  too? 

ARLISS 

(With  deep  conviction) 
No;  if  it  only  had  been! 

VAUGHAN 
(Incredulously) 
If  it  only  had  been? 

ARLISS 

Yes.  But  I  wouldn't  let  it— I  wouldn't.  To  kill 
the  pain  which  was  ready  to  flow  into  every  fiber  of 
my  being,  I  shot  my  mind  through  it.  It  became 
something  I  had  imagined,  something  I  had  read  or 
written;  for  I  simply  and  deliberately  and  cruelly 
denied  its  reality.  It  was  born  dead. 

VAUGHAN 
But  that  was  strength. 


THE  GARGOYLE  89 

ARLISS 
That  was  cowardice. 

VAUGHAN 
Cowardice?     How  do  you  know? 

ARLISS 

By  the  punishment  which  lurked  in  the  reaction. 
I  found  I  had  no  longer  the  power  to  keep  real  any 
feeling  I  wanted  to  feel. 

VAUGHAN 
(Puzzled) 
But  you  did  not  cease  to  feel? 

ARLISS 

No,  only  I  felt  differently.  I  felt  through  my 
mind.  In  other  words,  I  felt  self-consciously.  It's  a 
bit  subtle;  but,  to  describe  it  in  other  words,  my 
emotional  life  became  something  apart  from  me,  some 
thing  I  watched  and  guided — something  which  always 
knew  I  watched  and  guided.  I  never  forgot  how  I 
should  feel,  only  it  was  emotion  parented  by  my  mind 
and  my  sense  of  the  situation — never  directly,  by  the 
stimulus  itself.  I  still  had  red  blood  that  would  leap 
to  red  lips,  but  there  was  thought  in  my  kiss.  I  still 
had  eyes  that  would  weep,  but  no  tear  fell  from  its 
own  weight  of  sadness. 


90  THE  GARGOYLE 

VAUGHAN 
(Thoughtfully) 
That  recalls — 

ARLISS 

I  could  not  accept  from  the  unsuspecting  world 
either  praise  or  blame  for  my  actions,  because  /  ques 
tioned  the  motives  which  prompted  them.  What  days 
and  nights  they  were  as  I  sat  alone  beginning  to  doubt 
my  own  sincerity!  There  is  no  misery  you  have 
tasted  greater  than  that.  Was  I  sincere?  I  wormed 
my  life  with  that  question.  I  couldn't  dodge  that. 
And  to  myself  I  was  soon  forced  to  acknowledge  I 
was  a  hypocrite — an  actor  whose  grimaces  made  his 
emotion. 

VAUGHAN 
(Incredulously) 
But  couldn't  you  do  anything? 

ARLISS 

I  fought  against  it.  How  I  tried  to  be  as  real  to 
myself  as  I  seemed  to  others!  But  in  every  action, 
every  word,  every  look  which  sprang  so  self-con 
sciously  from  me,  I  saw  (Pointing  quickly  to  the 
shadow  on  the  floor  cast  by  the  gargoyle  outside)  I 
saw  a  gargoyle  leer  its  relentless  question :  "  Are  you 
sincere  ? "  Then  I  resolved  to  crush  its  thick  lips, 
to  escape  forever  from  my  own  mind,  for  once  to  aban- 


THE  GARGOYLE  91 

don  myself  to  a  life  of  the  senses — a  life  without 
thought — to  feel  without  question  gloriously  and 
nakedly,  to  become  an  elemental  being  who  could  re 
act  properly,  without  indirection,  from  every  stimulus 
— wTho  could  touch  and  be  burned — who  could  be  cut 
and  bleed — who  could  suffer  pain — 

VAUGHAN 
(Eagerly) 

Then,  what  did  you  do? 

ARLISS 

I  threw  myself  into  a  woman's  life.  I  stifled  each 
cry  of  treason  to  the  memory  of  the  other  love.  I 
went  on  and  on  with  words,  gestures,  tears,  and  sighs, 
furrowing  over  the  same  roads  and  highways  seeking 
this  new  heart.  But  when  her  love  paused  and  her 
calm  eyes  claimed  mine  in  return,  I  found  all  I  really 
had  to  give  her  was  the  same  conscious  lack  of  sin 
cerity.  I  had  not  changed.  It  had  been  too  late.  I 
had  become  an  emotional  hypocrite  with  nothing  real 
about  the  things  I  knew  I  said  so  prettily.  And  when 
I  looked  at  her — horror-stricken,  I  saw  I  had  burned 
her  fires  to  ashes. 

VAUGHAN 
You  ruined  her  life? 

ARLISS 
Absolutely. 


92  THE  GARGOYLE 

VAUGHAN 
How  terrible! 

ARLISS 

How  damnable!  (During  the  long  pause  which 
follows,  the  dawn  gently  tints  the  room.  The  clock 
strikes  the  hour  of  five.)  After  that  nothing  remained 
for  me  but  to  become  impersonal — to  soil  no  other  life 
with  my  thin  fingers — to  give  nothing — to  seek  nothing 
— to  get  nothing — to  be  emotionally  alone,  detached. 

VAUGHAN 
(Thoughtfully) 
That's  what  you  meant  by  loneliness. 

ARLISS 

Yes.  One  reality  was  left:  my  imagination,  my 
characters,  my  creations. 

VAUGHAN 
And  other  people's  letters. 

ARLISS 

Yes.  Your  life  in  them  was  real  to  me  because 
it  was  not  mine.  (Softly)  So  you  see,  when  it  comes 
to  "  matching  miseries,"  as  you  call  it,  I — 


THE  GARGOYLE  93 

VAUGHAN 

(Almost  tenderly) 
I  see  you  are  not  so  happy  as  I  thought. 

ARLISS 

(Looking  at  him  cautiously  and  feeling  his  way) 
But  you  understand  why? 

VAUGHAN 
Yes. 

ARLISS 

Only  the  more  intuitive  than  you  would  have 
grasped  this  without  living  it.  You  understand  by  an 
instinct;  because  it  is  an  emotional  echo. 

VAUGHAN 
(Half  mysteriously) 
Where-  before  have  I — 

ARLISS 

Back  before  the  dawn  of  your  new  life — you  your 
self  felt  it. 

VAUGHAN 
(Recalling) 

That's  so — that's  so.  That's  what  kept  me  spell 
bound  listening;  it  seemed  as  though  you  were  ex 
plaining  to  me  my  old  self  before — 


94  THE  GARGOYLE 

ARLISS 
Before  I  sent  you  out  in  the  world. 

VAUGHAN 
(Excitedly) 

No,  no;  you're  baffling  me  with  your  subtleties. 
You're  trying  to  confuse  me;  to  make  me  forget  why 
I've  come.  But  I  haven't  forgotten.  (Pointing  to 
wards  the  pistol.)  You  haven't  convinced  me  I 
should  alter  my  intention — for  what  has  all  this  to 
do  with  me?  I'm  not  that  way  now.  Thank  God, 
I'm  not  like  you.  But  answer  me — why  did  you  send 
me  out? 

ARLISS 

(Clearly  and  emphatically) 
To  save  you  from  becoming  what  I  am. 

VAUGHAN 

(Almost  dazed  with  the  idea) 
Would  I  have  become — ? 

ARLISS 

\  es.  I  am  the  logical  end  of  what  in  you  was  only 
a  tendency. 

VAUGHAN 
But  are  you  sure? 


THE  GARGOYLE  95 

ARLISS 
(Indignantly) 

Only  my  sureness  excuses  my  conduct.  I  had  one 
chance  to  save  myself — when  my  grief  first  struck  me. 
I  could  have  shaken  myself  free  of  myself  then,  and 
then  only,  in  that  molding  moment.  You  were  like 
me  in  all  things.  I  saw  you  were  killing  your  grief 
as  I  did,  letting  your  awakening  literary  sense  master 
and  direct  your  emotions — dodging  the  pain  of  it  all. 
I  couldn't  let  you  come  to  my  end — to  my  civilized 
soul  misery.  So  I  took  the  risk  to  make  you  what 
you  are  now,  and  I  sent  you  out  to  find  yourself,  as 
you  have,  in  the  mud  and  in  the  elemental. 

VAUGHAN 
But  you've  failed — I'm  ruined,  anyway. 

ARLISS 

No,  no. 

VAUGHAN 

Yes,  yes.  You've  saved  me  from  one  thing  to  toss 
me  to  another.  You  have  no  right  to  play  with  a 
human  life.  I  can't  forgive  you.  I  must  still  claim 
my  accounting.  You've  shown  me  your  emptiness,  but 
look  at  mine.  You've  shown  me  what  you've  saved 
me  from,  but  what  have  you  given  me  instead  ?  What 
have  you  given  me? 


96  THE  GARGOYLE 

ARLISS 

Everything  I  have  not.  Everything  except  my 
fame,  which  I  have  bought  by  losing  all  you  have. 
(He  speaks  with  exaltation.)  This  dawn  is  yours, 
but  not  mine;  you  have  drowned  your  grief  in  its 
colors.  The  paths  of  day  and  night  are  yours,  but 
not  mine,  for  over  them  you  have  dragged  your  pain. 
You've  soaked  the  world  with  your  tears;  the  world 
has  become  yours.  But  nothing  is  mine.  You  are  the 
humanity  about  you ;  you  own  its  blood,  its  sweat,  and 
its  heartbeat.  I  own  nothing.  You've  bought  them 
for  all  time  by  feeling  them  properly,  by  feeling  them 
sincerely.  For  that  I'd  give  all  my  fame — just  to  be 
able  to  feel  without  self-consciousness — to  feel  as  you, 
only  because  I  felt. 

VAUGHAN 
(Spiritually  moved) 

Yes,  yes;  what  you  say  must  be  true.  I  felt  it  out 
there,  but  it  lay  in  my  heart  seeking  a  voice.  Your 
words  have  let  something  free  within.  So  that's  what 
my  grief  has  given  me — the  world! 

ARLISS 
I  staked  all  that  I  might  make  you  see. 

VAUGHAN 

I  do  now.  (Enthusiastically)  But  in  speaking  like 
this,  you've  given  the  lie  unto  yourself.  You've  given 
me  a  release;  it  is  my  turn  to  give  you  yours. 


THE  GARGOYLE  97 

ARLISS 

You  can't — you  can't.  Nobody  can  free  me  from 
myself. 

VAUGHAN 

I  can.  You've  been  living  with  a  falr.e  idea  of 
yourself.  You're  not  what  you  think  you  are.  You 
say  you  don't  feel!  Why,  you,  too,  are  thrilling  still 
with  the  words  you've  given  me.  They  are  you,  you, 
you! 

ARLISS 
(With  grief) 
No,  I  was  only  feeling  in  your  place. 

VAUGHAN 

But  you  say  you  don't  suffer.  You  are  suffering 
now! 


ARLISS 

(Sinking  into  a  chair) 
I  suffer  only  because  I  do  not  suffer  properly. 

VAUGHAN 

(Looking  at  him  awed) 
What  a  tragedy! 

ARLISS 

No;  only  a  penalty.  All  "actors"  pay  it,  once 
they  honestly  understand  themselves.  And  we  all 
act  so. 


98  THE  GARGOYLE 

VAUGHAN 

Actors!  If  you  haven't  changed  from  what  you 
were,  you  must  be  acting  now.  (  ARLISS  starts.)  Have 
you  assumed  these  attitudes  to  save  yourself  from  my 
intention?  (Aggressively)  Have  you  spoken  because 
you  felt  it,  or  because  you  knew  it  was  the  thing  to  say  ? 

ARLISS 

(With  deep  pain) 
But  you  are  convinced  that  what  I  did  for  you — 

VAUGHAN 

No!  I  can't  be  unless  I  know  you  are  sincere. 
(ARLISS  winces.  VAUGHAN  leans  towards  him  across 
the  table.)  Tell  me,  have  you  been  sincere  with  me? 
Are  you  sincere  now? 

ARLISS 
(Almost  pitifully) 

Won't  you  show  me  that  you  believe  I  am?  Won't 
you  please  let  me  feel  I  am  sincere — just  for  once? 

(He  looks  at  VAUGHAN,  who,  after  a  pause, 
with  a  look  of  pity,  slowly  pushes  the  pistol 
towards  him.  ARLISS  smiles  faintly,  sunk  deep 
in  his  chair.) 


SLOW  CURTAIN 


IN  HIS  HOUSE 


PEOPLE 

SENATOR  VOLNEY  PIERCE 

CLAIRE,  his  wife 

JUDITH  SHANNON,  their  friend 


SCENE 
The  Pierce  Apartments,  Washington,  D.  C. 


IN  HIS  HOUSE* 

A   ROOM   of  a  suite    in   an   apartment    hotel. 
/§     Through    the    large    windows    at    the    right, 
**-  which  probably  overlook  a  park,  the  brilliant 

sun  pours,  touching  vividly  the  usual  furniture  resting 
in  the  usual  way.  The  reflected  gleam  upon  the  tele 
phone  calls  attention  to  the  long  table  at  the  left  upon 
which  it  rests,  and  a  deep  chair  near  it  yawns  invit 
ingly.  Another  smaller  table  close  to  the  window 
holds  the  magazines  of  the  day  and  some  flowers  of  the 
season.  The  couch,  a  few  stray  chairs  and  what-nots 
appropriately  fill  their  mission.  Two  doorways,  each 
half  concealed  through  short  hallways,  lead  off :  one 
at  the  right  in  back,  which  apparently  serves  as  en 
trance  from  the  house  elevators  without;  the  other, 
down  at  the  left,  which  obviously  opens  into  the  more 
intimate  living  quarters.  At  the  back,  at  the  left, 
the  curtained  alcove  does  not  completely  conceal  the 
outlines  of  another  room  which  proves  to  be  the  library. 
There  is  little  which  is  either  very  personal  or  charac 
teristic  in  the  atmosphere,  and  the  scene  simply  sug 
gests,  on  closer  inspection,  the  more  or  less  temporary 
resting  place  of  adequate  means  and  position. 

*  Copyright,  1911,  by  George  Middleton.    All  rights  re 
served. 

101 


102  IN  HIS  HOUSE 

The  curtain  rises  with  CLAIRE  and  VOLNEY  seated 
as  though  there  had  been  a  long  pause  in  their  talking. 
CLAIRE  PIERCE  has  just  passed  thirty;  from  the  settled 
expression  of  her  face,  with  its  high  forehead  and  firm 
mouth,  one  deduces  great  strength  of  determination, 
and  in  the  steady,  large  blue  eyes  is  discovered  a  latent 
spirituality.  But  one  cannot  brush  aside  the  thin  veil 
which  seems  to  hang  upon  the  outlines  as  though  she 
has  passed  through  some  indelible  experience.  While 
she  sits  watching  her  husband  a  restlessness  tinges  her 
words  and  actions. 

VOLNEY  PIERCE  would  easily  attract  attention  any 
where  because  of  his  sheer  virility.  The  gaunt,  deep- 
lined,  middle-aged  countenance,  with  its  large,  facile- 
lipped  mouth  and  small,  sunken  black  eyes,  conveys 
the  impression  of  deep  living  and  thought.  Yet  there 
is,  too,  in  his  manner  an  instinctive  appreciation  for 
subtleties  usually  foreign  to  his  type.  His  voice  is 
resonant  and  contains  notes  of  tenderness  and  emotion. 

The  long  pause  continues,  and  during  it  he  has 
again  picked  up  his  newspaper  and  begun  glancing 
casually  through  it. 

VOLNEY 
I'm  afraid,  Claire,  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said. 

CLAIRE 
In  spite  of  my  appeal,  you  feel  you  must  do  it? 


IN  HIS  HOUSE  103 

VOLNEY 

Yes;  your  reasons  are  sentimental,  dear.  I've 
thought  it  over  carefully.  It  means  my  Senatorship 
another  time — sure.  (Significantly)  You  can  never 
know  how  much  I  need  the  excitement  of  my  career. 

CLAIRE 

For  ten  years  your  career  has  been  my  one  thought. 
I  don't  want  you  to  do  anything  dishonest  now. 

VOLNEY 

It's  politics,  Claire.  Addison  controls  the  State  leg 
islature;  he  simply  agrees  to  re-elect  me  for  certain 
considerations.  It's  done  every  day. 

CLAIRE 
But  never  before  by  you.     You  mustn't  do  it. 

VOLNEY 

(Rising,  going  to  her,  and  patting  her  tenderly) 
There,  there,  Claire. 

CLAIRE 
You  won't  listen  to  me? 

VOLNEY 

I  have,  dear,  patiently.  When  Addison  'phones  me, 
let  me  know  at  once.  I'm  afraid  I  intend  to  consent 


io4  IN  HIS  HOUSE 

to    his    conditions.      (He    goes    out,    leaving    CLAIRE 
alone.) 

CLAIRE 
It's  not  honest;  but,  perhaps,  I  don't  understand. 

(She  rises  and  crosses  to  the  window,  slowly 
pulling  the  curtains  aside  and  looking  thought 
fully  away.  She  sighs,  not  hearing  the  tele 
phone  until  its  ring  is  repeated.  Then  ^he 
goes  and  takes  down  the  receiver.) 

Is  this  Mr.  Add — Oh,  Miss  Shannon — Miss  Judith 
Shannon?     Tell  her  to  come  right  up. 

(She  replaces  the  receiver  and  goes  to  call 
VOLNEY,  but,  on  second  thought,  hesitates  and 
walks  off  in  back.  There  is  a  sound  of  greet 
ing  without,  then  she  and  JUDITH  SHANNON 
enter. 

JUDITH  SHANNON,  past  her  first  youth,  too, 
with  her  auburn  hair  crowning  an  exceedingly 
mobile  face  and  nervous  black  eyes,  gives  at 
first  glance  an  impression  of  sex  and  tempera 
ment.  But  it  is  seen  by  her  soft  manner  of 
speech  and  conduct  that  she  has  schooled  and 
controlled  her  impulses  beneath  a  cultivated 
mentality.  She  is  a  strong  personality  and  im 
mediately  inspires  confidence.  One  notices, 
however,  that  while  she  is  evidently  fond  of 
CLAIRE,  she  is  not  quite  at  ease  throughout.) 


IN  HIS  HOUSE  105 

JUDITH 
I'm  so  glad  I  found  you. 

CLAIRE 

What  a  stranger  for  an  old  friend,  Judith;  it's 
nearly  six  months  since — 

JUDITH 

I  know;  but  horrid  business  difficulties  with  my 
publishers  and — 

CLAIRE 
You'll  stay  with  us  now,  of  course? 

JUDITH 

No;  I  only  ran  over  between  trains.  I'm  sailing 
next  Saturday. 

CLAIRE 
(Surprised) 

Abroad?     Another  of  your  sudden  impulses? 

JUDITH 

I  simply  can't  write  here;  I  need  sunlight  and  the 
sea.  I'm  going  to  a  little  island  in  the  Mediterranean 
to  finish  my  novel. 


io6  IN  HIS  HOUSE 

CLAIRE 

How  wonderful!  I  wish  I  were  going  along1. 
Volney'll  be  so  surprised,  too;  we'll  both  miss  you. 
I'll  call  him. 

JUDITH 

(Slightly  agitated) 
Is — Volney  in? 

CLAIRE 
Yes. 

JUDITH 

I  thought  he'd  be  at  the  Senate — that  we  might  be 
alone. 

CLAIRE 

No;  he's  waiting  a  'phone  call.  He'll  be  so  glad 
to  see  you. 

JUDITH 
(Stopping  CLAIRE  as  she  starts  to  the  door) 

Claire,  don't  call  Volney — just  yet.  I — I  didn't 
come  over  only  to  say  good-by — 


IN  HIS  HOUSE  107 

CLAIRE 

(Her  manner  changing:  her  voice  drops  to  a 

whisper;  she  does  not  conceal  her 

excitement) 

Judith,  you  have  some  word  from — ? 

JUDITH 
Yes. 

CLAIRE 
(Anxiously) 
Has  anything  happened  to  him? 

JUDITH 
I  have  a  letter  for  you. 

CLAIRE 
Give  it  to  me.     Wait. 

(While  JUDITH  takes  the  letter  from  her  bag 
she  watches  CLAIRE  half  with  pity  and  criti 
cism  as  she  goes  first  to  the  door,  left,  and  then 
to  the  library  and  back.  After  convincing  her 
self  that  they  cant  be  heard  she  comes  down 
to  JUDITH.) 

Volney  must  have  stepped  into  his  own  room. 


io8  IN  HIS  HOUSE 

JUDITH 

(Taking  another  sealed  envelope  which  is  inclosed 
in  the  letter,  and  hesitating) 

A  friend  who  was  with  him  sent  it  to  me  with  the 
details.  He  must  have  given  my  address.  It's  not 
very  good  news,  I'm  afraid. 

(CLAIRE  is  awed,  and  apprehensively  takes  the 
letter  slowly  from  JUDITH'S  reluctant  fingers. 
She  looks  at  JUDITH,  seeming  to  divine  the 
truth,  then  sits  by  table,  and  hastily  tears  the 
letter  open.  JUDITH  silently  watches  her  read 
what  is  apparently  a  short  note.  CLAIRE  be- 
trays  nothing.  She  puts  it  down  softly  and 
bows  her  head.  There  is  a  long  pause.) 

JUDITH 
(Softly,  as  she  refers  to  the  other  letter  in  her  hand) 

His  last  words  were  of  you,  Claire.  His  lips  were 
whispering  your  name  when —  They  have  buried  him 
on  the  hillside  overlooking  the  blue  waters.  They  put 
violets —  (CLAIRE  winces  audibly,  and  JUDITH  places 
her  hand  sympathetically  on  the  bended  shoulders.) 
Perhaps,  Claire,  you'd  better  read  this  yourself — later. 
(She  places  the  letter  upon  the  table  near  her.) 

CLAIRE 

He  blames  me,  Judith.  He  loved  me  to  the  end — 
yet  blames  me. 


IN  HIS  HOUSE  109 

JUDITH 

He  must  have  suffered — and  you  here  (Glancing 
toward  VOLNEY'S  room)  in  his  house. 

CLAIRE 

Dead !  Silence  between  us  for  seven  years  and  then 
this — to  blame  me.  And  I  loved  him  every  moment. 
I  loved  him.  (She  places  her  hands  to  her  eyes;  then 
she  speaks  in  a  strange  voice.)  Judith,  why  don't  the 
tears  come?  There  are  no  tears;  I  can't  even  give 
him  tears.  He's  dead!  And  they  put  violets — 

(She  bows  again  with  one  long  sob — trembling. 
JUDITH  stands  by  embarrassed  at  her  own  con 
strained  sympathy.  Some  moments  pass  in 
silence.) 

JUDITH 

Perhaps  I  did  wrong  to  tell  you,  since  it  cannot  alter 
matters  here. 

CLAIRE 

You  did  right ;  a  last  wish  is  sacred  and — and  it  will 
make  a  difference  here.  (Though  she  glances  toward 
her  husband's  room  significantly,  JUDITH  conceals  her 
eager  interest.)  Volney  owes  me  something  he  can 
never  repay.  I've  lived  here  with  him  and  sent  the 
other  away.  Yet  all  the  man  I  love  sends  me  from 
his  deathbed  is  blame  for  living  in  my  husband's  house. 
Oh! 


i  io  IN  HIS  HOUSE 

JUDITH 
That  is  natural,  Claire.     It's  hard — bitter  hard. 

CLAIRE 

But  I've  suffered,  too.  He  should  have  seen  I  was 
doing  my  duty.  Was  it  easy  to  give  up  all  he  was 
to  me  in  spite  of  myself?  You  knew  at  the  time  why 
I  kept  my  husband  ignorant.  And  besides,  Judith, 
Volney  loved  me. 

JUDITH 

(Controlling  herself  with   difficulty) 

Yes,  Volney  loved  you.  But  I'd — I'd  better  leave 
you  alone.  Is  there  anything  /  can  do? 

CLAIRE 

He  is  dead,  Judith.  What  can  you  do?  (Taking 
her  hand  affectionately)  You've  been  so  good.  You 
bring  all  things  back  each  time  I  see  you;  for  you 
alone  knew  what  terrible  days  they  were  when — when 
it  was  being  finished.  I  never  would  have  staggered 
through  them  without  Volney's  discovering,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  you. 

JUDITH 
No,  Claire,  I  did  nothing. 

CLAIRE 

You  protected  each  of  us  from  the  other.  If  you 
hadn't  been  with  him  so  much  working  on  the  articles 


IN  HIS  HOUSE  in 

together —      Do      you      remember      those      articles? 
( Vaguely )  What  were  they  about  ? 

JUDITH 
(Struggling) 
I  forget — I — 

CLAIRE 

Oh,  Judith,  each  time  when  things  became  too  hard 
later,  you  were  always  ready  to  help  me.  My  strength 
has  faltered  so  often  but  I  kept  on.  Judith!  Judith! 
Can  I  ever  forget  your  goodness  to  me  and  to  Volney? 

JUDITH 
(Impulsively) 

Claire !  Stop !  Stop !  I  can't  stand  it.  Let  me  go. 
I'm  not  a  hypocrite ;  it  isn't  in  my  blood. 

CLAIRE 
Judith  I 

JUDITH 
(Almost  fiercely) 

I  can't  take  your  thanks.  I  don't  want  you  ever 
to  speak  of  this  to  me  again. 

CLAIRE 
Judith! 


H2  IN  HIS  HOUSE 

JUDITH 

That's  why  I  haven't  been  here  lately,  why  I'm 
going  far  away  for  good.  Your  confidences  have  been 
a  burning  temptation  to  me.  I  can't  bear  them  any 
more,  do  you  hear?  I  can't  live  in  this  lie  between 
you  and  Volney;  it's  crushing  all  that's  decent  in  me. 
I  can't. 

CLAIRE 

(In  an  intuitive  flash) 
Judith,  you  love  my  husband! 

JUDITH 

(Openly) 
Yes. 

CLAIRE 
(Quickly) 
Does  Volney  know? 

JUDITH 

Nothing.  (As  CLAIRE  turns  away  relieved.) 
Though  I  knew  you  didn't  love  him  as  he  thinks. 
I  haven't  been  disloyal.  (Impulsively)  But  I  tell  you, 
Claire,  if  he  had  loved  me  I  wouldn't  have  been  the 
coward — 

CLAIRE 
— that  I  was?     You  mean  that? 


IN  HIS  HOUSE  113 

JUDITH 
You've  wrecked  a  man's  life. 

CLAIRE 
(Firmly) 
I  did  my  duty  by  Volney. 

JUDITH 
(Fiercely) 

x 

Did  you? 

CLAIRE 

Yes.  What  he  has  become  through  me  proves  it. 
His  career  is  mine;  his  integrity —  (She  suddenly 
recalls  the  dishonest  deed  her  husband  is  contemplating. 
The  force  of  her  u'ords  fails  her,  and  she  sinks  into 
the  chair,  looking  toward  his  room.)  I  tell  you, 
Judith,  I  did  right;  of  course,  I  did  right. 

JUDITH 
And  the  other  man? 

CLAIRE 
Judith,  this  is  terrible  of  you. 


ii4  IN  HIS  HOUSE 

JUDITH 

(Realizing  her  cruelty  and  going  to  CLAIRE  more 
tenderly  ) 

Little  Claire,  forgive  me.  I  was  a  beast  to  add  to 
your  pain  in  this  moment.  Neither  one  of  us  is  her 
self.  Of  course,  Volney  is  your  justification.  He 
loves  you;  you  need  fear  nothing  from  me.  Forgive 
me.  Only  love  means  something  different  to  me  than 
you  have  made  it.  That's  all.  This  is  good-by.  Oh, 
don't  be  sorry  for  me.  But  see  that  you  never  let  him 
weaken  for  your  own  sake — if  not  his.  ( The  telephone 
rings. ) 

CLAIRE 

Addison!  (She  stands  horrified,  realizing  its  sig 
nificance;  the  long,  impatient  ring  is  repeated.) 

VOLNEY 
(Outside) 
Is  that  for  me,  Claire? 

CLAIRE 

( To  herself  as  she  slowly  walks  toward  the 
telephone) 

Addison ! 


IN  HIS  HOUSE  115 

VOLNEY 
(As  he  enters) 

See  who  it  is!  (Sees  JUDITH.)  Why,  Judith,  I 
didn't  know — 

JUDITH 

(Self -defensively  throughout  as  they  shake  hands) 

I've  only  come  to  shake  your  hand.  Claire  will 
explain  where  I'm  off  to. 

VOLNEY 
Off? 

CLAIRE 

(Having  taken  down  receiver) 
It's  for  you,  Volney. 

VOLNEY 

Tell  them  to  hold  the  wire.  (CLAIRE  does  so, 
mechanically  putting  the  receiver  down  on  the  table, 
yet  scarcely  watching  them.)  You  mustn't  run  away 
like  this  without — 

JUDITH 

I  know  it's  horrid  of  me,  but  I  didn't  realize  how 
long  I  was  talking  to  Claire.  Goodness!  I  am  late 
for  my  train  now.  My  cab's  waiting.  Good-by. 


n6  IN  HIS  HOUSE 

VOLNEY 

I'll  see  you  down. 

JUDITH 

No.  One  mustn't  keep  a  Senator's  'phone  and  busi 
ness  of  state  waiting.  I've  said  good-by  to  Claire. 
And  now  to  you.  Good  luck,  Volney,  and  happiness. 
(She  shakes  hands  again  honestly,  concealing  every 
thing,  and  goes  out  quickly.) 

VOLNEY 

Why,  how  strange  of  her.  I  wonder  why —  (He 
stands  a  second  perplexed  and  then  goes  off  back  to 
close  the  door.  CLAIRE  is  alone.) 

CLAIRE 

"  Never  let  him  weaken."  (Suddenly  a  determined 
look  leaps  into  her  face;  she  lakes  up>  the  receiver,  not 
noting  VOLNEY  has  re-entered,  and  hears.)  Is  this 
Mr.  Addison?  Well,  won't  you  ring  up  later?  Sen 
ator  Pierce  is  not  here.  He'll  be  back  soon. 

VOLNEY 

(Coming  to  her) 
Claire! 

CLAIRE 

(Hangs  up  the  receiver  and  faces  him) 
Volney,  you  shan't  make  this  deal.     I  can't  let  you 
at  any  cost — now. 


IN  HIS  HOUSE  117 

VOLNEY 

Must  we  go  over  this  again? 

CLAIRE 

For  the  last  time.  I  beg  of  you  not  to  do  this. 
Can't  your  love  for  me  without  question  do  as  I  ask? 

VOLNEY 

(Losing  patience) 
It's  absurd  to  put  it  that  way. 

CLAIRE 
(Preventing  him  as  he  reaches  toivard  the  telephone) 

This  touches  something  deep  between  ourselves,  Vol- 
ney.  I  can't  let  you  cheapen  my  ideal  of  you ;  I  can't 
let  you  do  one  single  thing  that's  dishonest — now. 
I'd  rather  lose  your  love,  rather  topple  over  whatever 
happiness  and  joy  you  have  found  in  me  than  let  you 
do  this.  I'm  desperate,  Volney.  Give  this  up. 

VOLNEY 

Claire,  you're  ridiculously  capricious  to-day.  What's 
back  of  this  wild  mood?  Why  should  this  be  so  ab 
normally  important  to  you?  I  have  said  it's  only  a 
risk. 

CLAIRE 
It's  your  willingness  to  take  it. 


ii8  IN  HIS  HOUSE 

VOLNEY 

What's  the  hidden   reason    that   touches  something 
deep  between  ourselves?     Why  should  I  give  this  up? 

CLAIRE 

(Realizing  what  must  inevitably  follow) 
Volney,  for  my  justification. 

VOLNEY 

(Mystified) 
Justification  ? 

CLAIRE 

Yes.  You  owe  me  a  great  debt,  Volney.  You 
never  knew.  You  must  repay  me  now  by  keeping 
yourself  the  man  I  thought  you.  By  keeping  your 
career  and  integrity  clean.  That  can  be  my  only 
justification  for  what  I've  done.  Oh!  (Her  hand 
accidentally  touches  the  letter  she  has  placed  in  her 
bosom;  she  breaks  a  bit.)  You  must  justify  me — you 
must.  I  see  that;  and  nothing  else — otherwise — oh, 
the  horror,  the  grimness,  the  irony! 

(He  stands  looking  at  her  as  she  is  shuddering. 
Then  he  half  turns  her  toward  him,  forcing 
her  to  look  into  his  eyes.) 

VOLNEY 
What  is  it,  Claire? 


IN  HIS  HOUSE  119 

CLAIRE 

(without  flinching) 

There's  been  another  man  in  my  life  for  seven  years 
and  I  gave  him  up.  (They  stand  some  moments; 
then  VOLNEY,  very  quiet,  slowly  takes  his  hands  from, 
her  shoulders,  and  sits  upon  the  chair  back  of  her. 
She  still  stands  where  she  was  without  turning  toward 
him.)  Help  me.  Help  me,  Volney. 

VOLNEY 
Go  on. 

CLAIRE 

There  isn't  much.  I  knew  him  before — before  you, 
and  I — but  I  'didn't  realize  till — till  afterwards  that 
the  touch  of  his  hand —  Oh,  I  can't  put  it  into  words. 
But  he  loved  me,  too. 

VOLNEY 
Why  didn't  he  come  to  me? 

CLAIRE 
He  wanted  to. 

VOLNEY 
You  prevented? 

CLAIRE 
Yes. 


120  IN  HIS  HOUSE 

VOLNEY 

Then  why  didn't  you  tell  me? 

\ 

\ 

CLAIRE 

I  didn't  want  you  to  know.  I  sent  him  away  al 
most  as  soon  as  we  both  realized.  We  haven't  seen 
each  other  since. 

VOLNEY 
Why? 

CLAIRE 

(Turning  toward  him  for  the  first  time) 
For  your  sake. 

VOLNEY 


For  me? 


CLAIRE 


I  couldn't  allow  any  blow  like  that  to  halt  the  de 
velopment  of  your  character;  it  was  struggling  between 
expediences  and  ideals;  it  had  just  begun  to  crystallize 
so  strong  and  firm  and — 

VOLNEY 
(Incredulously) 
My  development! 


IN  HIS  HOUSE  121 

CLAIRE 

And  besides,  I  couldn't  let  any  scandal  hurt  your 
career. 

VOLNEY 
How  could  that — ? 

CLAIRE 

You  were  a  coming  man ;  no  matter  how  little  you 
might  be  to  blame,  the  voters  would  never  have  sup 
ported  you.  You  wouldn't  divorce  me;  you  were  too 
— too  decent,  and  there  was  no  cause  save  just  I 
loved  him.  And  I  couldn't  get  the  divorce  by  paltry 
connivance,  for  you  never  would  have  been  able  to 
explain  to  the  public  that  it  was  for  my  happiness. 
So  I — I  sent  him  away — that,  in  the  stress  of  public 
life,  your  character  might  grow  even  stronger  with 
the  woman  you  loved  standing  by  and  that  you  might 
not  be  smirched  with  a  family  scandal.  Your  career, 
your  honor,  your  integrity  have  been  everything  to  me. 
That's  why  you  musn't  do  this  thing.  For  God, 
don't  you  see?  If  you  fall  or  falter  or  weaken,  all 
I  have  done  will  be  terrible;  for  I've  just  learned 
that — that  he  couldn't  forget  me,  that  his  life  has 
been  wrecked,  and  that  he  hasn't  been  strong  enough 
to  stand  what  I  asked  of  him.  And  it's  mainly  my 
fault.  Volney,  Volney,  you  owe  me  something,  for  I 
gave  up  what  the  world  calls  happiness  for  your  sake. 


122  IN  HIS  HOUSE 

Now  you  know,  Volney;  now  you  know — everything. 
Don't  be  ice. 

(She  bows  her  head.  VOLNEY'S  face  has  been 
inscrutably  calm  until,  after  she  finishes,  he 
slowly  grasps  the  entire  significance  of  her  con 
fession.  There  is  a  tense  silence.) 


VOLNEY 
(Slowly) 

My  career  built  with  the  wreckage  of  another  life! 

(CLAIRE  watches  him  in  suspense  as  he  rises 
and  after  a  moments  hesitation  goes  to  the 
telephone.) 

CLAIRE 

(In  a  hushed  voice) 
You'll  give  this  deal  up? 

VOLNEY 

(At  the  telephone) 
Hello!     Give  me  Garden  Seventy-one.     Yes. 

CLAIRE 

You'll  give  this  up? 


IN  HIS  HOUSE  123 

VOLNEY 
(Ignoring  her) 

Hello!  Is  Mr.  Addison  there?  Yes;  Senator 
Pierce.  Thank  you.  (Pause.)  Hello,  Addison. 
I've  been  thinking  that  little  matter  over  and  I've 
decided  I  can't  accept.  (CLAIRE  gives  a  cry  of  joy.) 
No.  Under  no  considerations.  Personal  reasons. 
Wait.  (Deliberately)  This  is  for  your  private  ear. 
I'm  also  sending  my  resignation  by  the  next  mail  to 
the  Governor.  Yes,  resignation.  No,  I  shan't  even 
fill  my  unexpired  term.  Personal  reasons  again.  I 
thought  I'd  tell  you  so  that  you  could  see  "  the  old 
man  "  before  it  gets  out.  Irrevocably.  Good-by.  (He 
hangs  up  the  receiver;  they  stare  at  each  other.) 

CLAIRE 
What  have  you  done? 

VOLNEY 
You  heard. 

CLAIRE 
Given  up  everything? 

VOLNEY 

I  can  accept  nothing  at  that  price,  nor  keep  what 
I  gained  by  it.  (She  is  completely  stunned,  and  he 
continues  with  bitterness  struggling  beneath  a  cold, 


i24  IN  HIS  HOUSE 

deliberate  manner.)  Was  that  your  idea  of  my  char 
acter?  My  love  in  those  days?  My  strength?  Did 
you  think,  at  the  test,  I  could  not,  as  a  man,  stand 
alone  ? 

CLAIRE 
I  only  thought  you  needed  me. 

VOLNEY 
I  did  your  strength  and  love,  but  not  your  pity. 

CLAIRE 

You  did  not  know  what  it  was  I  gave  you — the 
effect  was  the  same. 

VOLNEY 

At  the  time,  perhaps;  but  your  own  lie  has  killed 
its  offspring;  now  everything's  sunk  down.  The  foun 
dations  have  fallen  because  they  were  soaked  to  rot 
tenness  in  a  woman's  tears. 

CLAIRE 
I  gave  them  willingly  for  you. 

VOLNEY 

You  expect  me  to  receive  them  proudly  like  most 
men?  Is  that  the  sort  of  man  you  think  me?  To  be 
proud  when  a  woman  sacrificed  herself  and  the  man 


IN  HIS  HOUSE  125 

she  loved,  fearing  I  would  otherwise  fall?  That  I 
couldn't  rise  above  talk?  Proud?  It's  an  insult  to 
all  that's  best  in  me. 

CLAIRE 

(Halted  completely  by  this  unexpected  reaction) 
Insult  ? 

VOLNEY 

Yes.  Not  to  have  had  the  chance  to  offer  you 
happiness  even  with  your  poor  weak  fool. 

CLAIRE 
(Defensively) 

You  would  have  given  everything,  I  knew,  if  I  had 
asked.  But  that  wouldn't  have  altered  the  other  facts. 
I  did  what  I  thought  was  honorable  by  you. 

VOLNEY 
(Scornfully) 

Honorable?  You  thought  what  you  did  honorable? 
You  quibble  with  me  because  I  was  about  to  accept 
Addison's  questionable  offer;  you  are  shocked  by  that; 
yet,  with  your  flexible  logic  and  feminine  ideas  of 
moral  obligations  for  seven  years  you  can  see  nothing 
despicable  in  living  a  lie  in  my  house.  Honorable? 
Ha,  ha! 


126  IN  HIS  HOUSE 

CLAIRE 
I  suffered  for  it. 

VOLNEY 

That  was  sufficient  excuse,  I  suppose,  for  the  deceit 
and  the  hypocrisy.  You  acted  well;  played  your  part 
splendidly;  tricked  even  my  instincts — for  I  never  sus 
pected. 

CLAIRE 

(With  a  certain  desperate  strength  and  sincerity)    . 

Give  me  credit  for  that.  There  would  have  been 
only  a  half-gift  had  I  brought  you  daily  tears  and  a 
sad  smile.  There  would  have  been  no  sacrifice  had  I 
given  you  a  broken  reed  for  your  constant  care  and 
pity.  What  if  I  have  hid  every  sigh,  every  tear,  every 
dull  leaden  empty  hour?  You  blame  me  for  the  lie; 
credit  me  with  my  consideration  and  sincerity  as  I 
saw  it. 

VOLNEY 

Sincerity?  And  you  lived  with  me  all  these  years 
as  my  wife,  and  I  never  knew.  Actress!  (Hitting 
himself.)  Fool! 

CLAIRE 

I  accepted  your  name,  your  roof,  your  protection. 
There  can  be  no  half  ways.  I  had  to  give  if  I  took. 


IN  HIS  HOUSE  127 

VOLNEY 

(Revolted) 
Wanton ! 

CLAIRE 
No! 

VOLNEY 

I  understand  now.  Wanton!  With  your  passive 
pleasures,  taking  lips  that  meant  his,  embraces  that 
touched  other  memories  into  fire!  And  his  name! 
How  was  it  you  never  gasped  his  name? 

CLAIRE 

Don't  phrase  those  hours,  do  you  hear?  Don't  go 
so  far.  I've  done  with  all  my  woman's  strength  what 
I  saw  was  right  by  you,  and  you're  pulling  everything 
down  upon  me.  I've  shown  to  save  your  integrity 
I  was  willing  to  risk  your  love,  by  telling  you  what 
I  have.  But  there  are  some  things  your  tongue  shan't 
touch.  You  think  I  did  wrong,  but  I  never  stole  one 
hour  with  him.  I  tell  you  I  played  straight  that  way. 

VOLNEY 
How  do  I  know?     How  can  I  ever  know? 

CLAIRE 
My  word. 


128  IN  HIS  HOUSE 

VOLNEY 

Your  word?  When  you  lived  this  lie  for  seven 
years — when  in  not  one  single  act  have  you  changed 
toward  me  since  I  first  brought  you  to  my  house. 
You've  given  everything  just  the  same;  yet  it  was  a 
lie,  all  of  it  a  lie.  How  can  I  believe  in  the  truth  of 
one  single  thing  in  the  present  or  in  the  past?  How 
can  I,  just  because  you've  given  your  word — your 
word? 

(She  sits  staring  for  a  long  while  before  her, 
and  the  absolute  uselessness  of  future  words 
overwhelms  her.  He  has  halted,  controlled 
himself,  and  stands  looking  long  out  of  the 
window.  The  sunlight  lessens.) 

CLAIRE 
(In  a  dull,  dead  voice) 

That's  true.  It's  over — finished.  We  can't  live 
together  any  longer.  What  irony!  Yet  I  had  the 
courage  to  speak  at  last  as  I  had  the  courage  to  live. 
You  won't  do  the  dishonest  thing  now.  But  what 
irony  to  have  killed  your  love  to  save  you  from  the 
other ! 

VOLNEY 

(Turning,  questions  himself  a  second,  then  after 
a  pause,  speaks  with  calmness) 

Claire,  my  love  for  you  has  been  dead  for  some  time. 


IN  HIS  HOUSE  129 

CLAIRE 

(Silenced  at  first,  not  grasping  it) 
It  was  dead  before  this?     I  did  not  kill  it? 

VOLNEY 
No,  it  just  passed. 

CLAIRE 
(Smiling  cynically) 

Even  that.  Then  now  it  was  your  vanity  and  not 
your  heart  I  hurt. 

VOLNEY 

I  was  going  to  sneak  out  of  it — the  injured  party — 
but  I  guess  we'd  better  face  the  truth  between  us  for 
once. 

CLAIRE 
Yes,  it  would  be  best  at  the  end. 

VOLNEY 

I  considered  this  deal  because  I  hadn't  the  moral 
courage  to  fight  as  I  used  to;  for  back  of  me  here  in 
my  home  I  knew  my  own  deception.  That's  why  I 
couldn't  play  straight  outside;  why  I  needed  the  mere 
excitement  to — to  get  away  from  things. 


130  IN  HIS  HOUSE 

CLAIRE 
(Bitterly) 

So  the  man,  too,  could  live  with  his  wife  when  love 
was  dead! 

VOLNEY 
It's  different  somehow. 

CLAIRE 
Everything  is  different  with  a  man. 

VOLNEY 

Yes,   the  tolerance  of  you  women  has  made  it  so. 
(He  starts  toward  the  door.) 

CLAIRE 

(To  herself) 
Even  that. 

VOLNEY 
I  think  that  is  all. 

CLAIRE 
What  are  you  going  to  do? 

VOLNEY 

I'll  arrange  things.     Then  I'll  begin  new  work  and 
mold  something  apart  from  this  lie.     I  can,  I  think. 


IN  HIS  HOUSE  131 

I'll  take  up  my  writing  again  perhaps.    When  matters 
are  settled  I'll  go  abroad. 

CLAIRE 

Abroad  ?    ( She  recalls. )    Wait,  Volney.     (Directly ) 
Is  it  Judith  Shannon? 

VOLNEY 

(Turning  surprised) 
Judith? 

CLAIRE 

We  do  not   always  know  one  love   is  dead   until 
another  comes.     Do  you  love  her? 

VOLNEY 
No,  certainly  not.     I've  had  enough  of  love. 

CLAIRE 
(Slowly) 

Go  to  her,  Volney.     When  you  are  free,  go  to  her. 

VOLNEY 
There  never  has  been  one  word — 

CLAIRE 
I  know;  she  told  me.     She  loves  you.     Go  to  her. 


132  IN  HIS  HOUSE 

VOLNEY 

(To  himself) 
Judith! 

CLAIRE 

That  is  the  one  last  thing  from  me  you  can  believe; 
ray  "  dishonesty  "  cannot  touch  that. 

VOLNEY 
Judith! 

CLAIRE 
She  also  knew  about  me  and  the  other  one. 

VOLNEY 

(With  admiration) 
And  she  never  told  me?     How  splendid  of  her! 

CLAIRE 

(Realizing  what  the  future  may  offer  to  him  now) 
Go  to  her. 

VOLNEY 

I  suppose  we  all  deserve  a  little  happiness  out  of 
this  tangle.  I'll  arrange  things  quietly.  I'll  leave 
the  house  to-night. 


IN  HIS  HOUSE  133 

CLAIRE 

Yes;  to-night.     (With  a  despairing  emotional  note) 
And  what's  to  become  of  me? 

VOLNEY 
(Kindly) 

Why,  you  must  go  to  him,  of  course.     Go  to  the 
man  you  love! 

(He  goes  out  quietly,  closing  the  door.  She 
stands  dumb  at  his  words.  Then  she  fingers 
the  letter  which  JUDITH  has  placed  on  the 
table.  She  stares  before  her  while  the  day 
fades.) 

SLOW  CURTAIN 


MADONNA 


PEOPLE 

MR.  LEE 

DONNA,  his  daughter 
GILBERT  STEELE,  her  fiance 
BARKER,  an  old  family  servant 


SCENE 
Living  room  and  library  in  MR.  LEE'S  home 


MADONNA* 

r  f  THE  room  suggests  long  occupancy:  its  book- 
I  lined  walls  and  old-fashioned  furniture  indi- 
cate  the  owner  s  love  of  simplicity  rather  than 
a  small  purse.  A  large  engraving  of  "  The  Sistine 
Madonna  "  in  a  jaded,  black  wooden  frame  first  catches 
the  eye.  Lamps  and  candle-sticks  about  are  whimsical 
in  shape,  and  they  rest  securely  in  settled  places  amid 
the  horse-haired  sofa  and  chairs.  A  fireplace  at  the 
left,  near  a  door  which  opens  into  DONNA'S  room, 
casts  its  wavering  light  upon  a  snow-rimmed  window 
by  it.  The  general  entrance  to  the  room  is  in  a 
further  corner  at  the  right.  Another  door  on  this  side 
leads  to  MR.  LEE'S  bedroom.  The  soft  lights,  with  a 
suggestion  of  wind  and  snow  without,  give  a  sense  of 
comfort  and  intimacy  to  those  within. 

As  the  curtain  rises,  DONNA  and  MR.  LEE,  with 
BARKER  waiting  on  them,  are  seated  at  the  table  just 
finishing  their  meal. 

DONNA  is  a  sweet  girl,  about  twenty,  with  golden 
hair  and  blue  eyes,  quaintly  pretty  in  her  simple  frock. 
Though  there  is  a  suggestion  of  strength  she  gives 
rather  the  impression  of  frank,  unspoiled  innocence. 

*  Copyright,  1911,  by  George  Middleton.  All  rights  re 
served. 

137 


138  MADONNA 

MR.  LEE  is  middle-aged,  handsome,  and  with  a  del 
icate  tenderness  zuhich  somehow  is  lost  at  times  be 
neath  a  spasmodically  assumed  manner  of  speech.  His 
hair  is  already  prematurely  gray,  and  while  he  is  pow 
erful  to  the  eye,  a  close  observer  might  detect  signs 
of  physical  weakness.  Pic  has  evidently  lived  an  in 
tent  life  aimed  at  a  great  desire  and  shadowed  by  deep 
sorrow.  He  is  in  his  long  smoking-jacket. 

BARKER  is  sixty,  fairly  vigorous,  and  unoffensively 
paternal.  By  preference  he  is  obviously  in  a  butler's 
suit — rather  old-fashioned. 

BARKER  has  placed  the  ices  upon  the  table,  but  they 
are  left  untouched.  Something  preoccupies  each. 
BARKER  removes  the  ices,  showing  that  he  has  noticed 
they  have  not  been  eaten.  He  places  a  small  cup  of 
coffee  before  DONNA.  She  waves  it  aside  in  silence. 

LEE 
/'//  take  coffee  to-night,  Barker. 

BARKER 

(Half  reprovingly) 
But  Dr.  Kinard  especially  said — 

LEE 

Doctors  always  forbid  you  taking  the  only  things 
you  care  about.  (BARKER  reluctantly  pours  it  half 


MADONNA  139 

out.  LEE  motions  him  to  fill  cup.  Takes  a  sip,  puts 
it  down,  pushing  it  aside.)  Bah!  Something's  the 
matter  with  everything  to-night,  Barker. 

BARKER 

So  I  see.     Neither  you  or  Miss  Donna  have  eaten 
at  all,  and  I  was  especially  careful  on  this  occasion. 

DONNA 

(Sweetly) 

Everything  was  splendid,  Barker,  only  —  I  —  I  wasn't 
hungry. 

LEE 
Neither  was  I,  Barker. 

BARKER 

I   should   have  known   you   wouldn't   be  —  this  last 
night  together. 

(LfiE  motions  him  to  be  silent.  DONNA  rises 
and  crosses,  pulls  aside  the  window  curtains. 
She  breathes  upon  the  windowpane,  and  looks 
absently  out  with  a  curious  mingling  of  gravity 
and  controlled  nervousness.  LEE  watches  his 
daughter  a  second  and  sighs.) 


LEE 
(Aside) 
Barker,  you're  a  damn  fool  !   ^v-  .  - 


HO  MADONNA 

BARKER 

So  your  father  said.  (  LEE  smiles  and  pats  BARKER'S 
shoulder,  crossing  to  large  chair.  He  sits  with  a  slight 
effort.  BARKER  looks  from  one  to  the  other  know 
ingly.  There  is  a  broken  pause  during  which  BARKER 
clears  the  things  to  a  small  serving-table  in  back.)  It 
was  a  bad  night  out,  sir.  (No  answer.)  Yes,  sir. 
(He  pauses.)  Papers  say  it'll  be  clear  to-morrow. 
Hope  so.  Church  bells  sound  so  much  sweeter  across 
the  snow — after  a  storm  when  the  air  is  clear,  and 
the  sunlight —  (He  sees  they  are  paying  no  attention. 
He  deliberately  rattles  a  plate.  They  look.)  Yes,  sir! 
Before  we  were  married,  the  late  Mrs.  B.  remarked 
there  was  sunshine  tucked  away  in  most  dark  clouds. 
Don't  take  it  so  hard.  Suppose  it  would  have  broken 
the  late  Mrs.  B.'s  heart,  too, — to  have  seen  you  leave 
us,  Miss  Donna.  Never  had  any  children  of  our 
own — to  speak  of.  Our  boy  didn't  amount  to  much — 
You  were  all. 

DONNA 

(Recalling  fondly) 

Yes.  Dear  old  nursie;  how  good  she  was  to  me. 
And  I  was  so  cross — when  I  was  young.  (LEE 
grunts.) 

BARKER 

Yes.  The  late  Mrs.  B.  often  remarked  it.  But 
she  loved  you — as  we  did — just  for  crying  day  and 
night. 


MADONNA  141 

LEE 

Babies  always  cry  at  night.  (Thoughtfully)  So  do 
grown  people — when  they  cry.  Wonder  why?  (He 
sniffles  suspiciously.)  I  must  have  caught  a  cold.  Bet 
ter  bring  another  log. 

BARKER 
(Choking  up) 

Yes,  sir;  we've  both  got  colds.  Miss  Donna,  (She 
turns)  I  have  a  little  wedding  present  for  you. 

DONNA 

(Impulsively) 
Oh,  no,  Barker,  you  can't — 

BARKER 

Can't  afford  it?  I'd  like  to  know  what  I've  been  a 
butler  all  my  life  for. 

DONNA 

I  didn't  mean  that,  Barker.  Only  Gilbert  and  I 
have  so  many  presents,  I  don't  know  how  we're  going 
to  live  up  to  them.  Besides,  I  have  your  love,  your 
good  wishes,  your — 

BARKER 

Yes,  Miss.  But  I  have  as  much  right  as  Mr.  Lee: 
he's  only  your  father.  When  he  was  away  so  often 


142  MADONNA 

the  late  Mrs.  B.  and  me  combed  out  your  golden  curls 
many  a  time,  and  washed  your  face,  and — 


DONNA 

(Reminiscently) 

Yes,  yes, — Daddy  never  saw  how  dirty  I  could  be 
(Laughing}  and  how  I  loved  it. 

BARKER 

It's  not  much.  (He  feels  in  one  pocket,  then  an 
other,  until  at  last  he  pulls  out  a  plush  box  contain 
ing  an  old-fashioned  jeweled  necklace  of  odd  design.) 
Hope  you'll  wear  it  to-morrow.  It  really  isn't  from 
me.  I've  just  been  keeping  it  all  these  years  for  you. 
Had  it  fixed  up  a  bit.  It's  from  the  late  Mrs.  B. 

DONNA 

(Takes  it  tenderly) 

Oh!  how  lovely!  Look,  father!  (Pause.)  Barker, 
I  should  like  to  have  you  fasten  it  on.  (He  takes  it  as 
she  bows  her  head.  He  fwnbles  in  fastening  it.) 

BARKER 

My  fingers  are  sort  of  mixed  to-night.  (She  stifles 
a  little  sob.  LEE  coughs  suspiciously,  which  BARKER 


MADONNA  H3 

notes.)     I'd  better  get  that  log.     We're  all  catching 
cold. 

(BARKER  exits  hastily  with  serving  tray. 
DONNA  watches  him  with  feared  eyes.  The 
door  closes;  pause.  LEE  grunts.  DONNA  runs 
to  her  father,  losing  control  of  herself;  she  sobs, 
kneeling  beside  him.) 

DONNA 

Oh,  Daddy,  I  can't  leave  you.  I  can't  go  away 
alone  with  Gilbert  to-morrow.  I  don't  want  to  be 
married. 

LEE 

(Holding  her  close,  with   infinite   understanding 
and  tenderness  throughout) 


Girlie !  girlie ! 


DONNA 


I  can't  bear  leaving  home  and  all  my  little  treasures. 
I  feel  just  as  though  I  were  losing  everything  I  held 
dearest — everything  and  you,  Daddy. 

LEE 

I  know.  I  know.  I  don't  want  you  to  go,  either. 
I  don't — I  don't,  my  little  girl.  (He  controls  him 
self.)  Now,  I  understand  how  your  grandmother 
must  have  felt  when  I  took  your  mother  away  from 


144  MADONNA 

home.     I  never  thought  I'd  be  feeling  it  myself.     It's 
twice  as  hard:  I  have  no  one  to  bear  it  with  me. 


DONNA 

Daddy,  say  I  can't  go. 

LEE 

That's  natural.  Every  girl —  But  you  mustn't  feel 
this  way  with  Gilbert.  (She  looks  at  him.)  You 
mustn't. 

DONNA 

Oh!  I  can't  help  it.  I've  tried  but  I  can't.  And 
I  love  him  so.  I've  always  loved  him  so.  But  he's 
going  to  take  me  away  from  you  to-morrow,  and  I'll 
be  alone  with  him,  and  then —  (Trembling)  Oh!  I 
can't — I  can't — I  can't.  (She  sobs  heart-broken  on 
his  breast.  He  soothes  her  hair.  He  feels  helpless. 
Long  pause.) 

LEE 

If  your  mother  had  only —  (He  draws  a  long 
breath  in  recollection.)  You  need  her  now,  don't 
you,  girlie? 

DONNA 

Yes — yes — she'd  understand. 


MADONNA  145 

LEE 

Maybe  I  do  a  bit,  too;  though  I'm  only  a  man.  I 
haven't  been  father  and  mother  to  you  all  these  years 
without  knowing — 

DONNA 

(Looking  up  into  his  face) 

Oh!  Daddy!  you've  been  everything  to  me.  Every 
thing  a  girl  could  want.  That's  partly  what  makes  it 
so  hard  to  go — because  I  know  how  it  will  hurt  you  to 
see  me  leave  the  church.  (Eagerly)  Oh,  Daddy!  why 
won't  you  come  and  live  with  us?  Gilbert  wants  it. 
Why  do  you  say  you  must  be  alone,  now? 

LEE 

Because  it's  best,  girlie — best.  You  and  Gilbert 
know  each  other  better  than  most  lovers — since  you 
were  little  tots,  too,  eh?  But  there'll  be  many  new 
things  you  two  will  have  to  work  out  all  by  yourselves, 
and  it  wouldn't  do  to  have  an  old,  settled,  gray-haired 
man  like  me  snoozing  around  meddling  and  mixing 
things  up.  No,  no.  It's  best  young  people  should 
start  alone. 

DONNA 

I  suppose  you're  right;  you  always  are.  (He  denies 
this.)  But  you  said  you  were  going  on  a  long  journey. 
Couldn't  we — 


146  MADONNA 

LEE 

(Smiling  and  concealing  significance) 
The  long  journey  I  start  on  soon,  I  shall  take  alone. 

DONNA 

But  I  could  have  waited.  So  would  Gilbert,  if  I 
had  said  so.  (Eagerly)  It's  not  too  late  now.  If 
you'll  only  say  so,  we'll  postpone — 

LEE 
(Smiling) 

No,  no — 

i 

DONNA 

Let  me  tell  him  to  wait  until — 


LEE 

(Shaking  his  head  and  lifting  hers  with  his  two* 
hands  until  she  looks  into  his  eyes) 

You  think  it's  because  you're  leaving  me  and  home 
that  you  feel  this  way.  It  isn't,  dearest.  You're  just 
deceiving  yourself,  and  I  understand  the  red  reason, 
this  last  night,  girlie.  I  understand  everything. 


MADONNA  147 

DONNA 

(Her  head  sinks  into  his  lap  as  she  realizes  he 
understands  her  fear) 

Yes,  that's  why  I  am  afraid — afraid — afraid. 

(She  sobs  nervously.  There  is  a  long  pause 
while  the  clock  sloivly  strikes  nine.  LEE  notes 
it,  and  looking  up  sees  the  Madonna,  which 
has  slowly  grown  out  of  the  darkness  as  the 
moonbeams  have  stolen  in  through  the  window. 
Pause.) 

LEE 
(Rambling  casually) 

The  night  is  slipping  away  and  the  storm  has 
ceased.  See !  the  moon  is  struggling  a  wee  bit  to  silver 
all  the  land.  It  takes  me  back  to  another  night  when — 
(He  sighs.)  Little  girl,  I've  tried  to  let  you  know 
life  as  it  is  with  no  falseness:  for  the  best  women  are 
those  wrho  know  dark  secrets  yet  keep  their  hearts 
pure.  You've  been  about  enough  to  know — enough. 
Gilbert,  too,  oh!  he's  a  fine  lad,  isn't  he?  (She  nods 
quickly.)  Gilbert  hasn't  anybody  but  us.  Remember 
his  father?  Often  wondered  why  he  asked  me  to  take 
care  of  his  son  after  he  passed  by.  Now  I  know:  it 
was  for  you.  I've  made  Gilbert  see  some  of  the  world 
— for  I  wanted  you  both  to  understand  that —  (He 
looks  at  the  jeweled  necklace  BARKER  has  given 
DONNA.)  Good  old  Barker!  Did  you  ever  think, 


148  MADONNA 

Donna,  that  jewels  grow  in  the  earth — only  some  one 
must  clean  away  the  darkness  before  their  beauty 
shines?  Most  rare  things  are  like  that.  (Making 
point,  and  noting  its  effect  upon  her.)  Love's  a  bit 
like  it,  too:  the  kind  that  crowns  a  life.  My,  my! 
how  the  hours  are  flying,  and  soon  you  and  Gilbert 
will  be  facing  that  great  world  out  there — hand  in 
hand.  (He  impulsively  hugs  her  as  if  in  protection.) 
You  can't  know  yet  how  foolishly  we  parents  fear  to 
let  our  children  approach  the  things  we've  passed.  But 
you  all  do  it,  somehow.  So  there's  not  much  an  old 
fool  of  a  father  can  say  to  you  now.  (Looking  at 
Madonna)  Yes,  there  is  one  thing:  one  message. 

DONNA 

(Nestling) 

Daddy,  Gilbert  said  you'd  wish  to  talk  with  me. 
That's  why  he  won't  be  here  to-night.  Oh!  he  is  so 
thoughtful  and  good.  Why  is  it,  several  times  to 
night,  when  I  thought  of  to-morrow,  I  almost  wished 
he'd  never  come?  Can't  it  go  on  just  as  it  is  between 
him  and  me?  I  don't  want  it  to  be  different.  I  can't 
think  of — oh,  no!  I  don't  mean  that — there's  some 
thing  wrong  with  me — wrong.  I  try  to  be  calm  and 
happy — but  I'm  all  upset  and  afraid  of,  and — oh!  (He 
puts  his  hand  on  her  head  and  pushes  back  curls.) 

LEE 

You  just  need  somebody  to  catch  all  the  unrest  and 
touch  it  with  a  bigger  meaning — to  see  the  spirit  in 


MADONNA  149 

it.      (Looking  at  Madonna  again)   I've  been  thinking 
lately  perhaps  I'll  have  to  set  you  straight  about  it  all. 

(BARKER  has  entered  with  a  log.  He  fixes  the 
fire  in  silence,  and  it  burns  up.  The  wind  out 
side  is  heard  occasionally.) 

BARKER 
Shall  I  light  the  others? 

DONNA 

Let  me.  Just  the  candles  and  the  firelight.  We'll 
sit  beside  it,  Daddy,  you  and  I,  and  talk,  and  the  wind 
outside  will  tell  us  we  are  all  alone. 

BARKER 

(Crossing  to  door) 
I'll  get  the  candles. 

LEE 

Let  Donna.    I  like  to  watch  her  light  them. 
( DONNA  exits.) 

BARKER 

(After  a  pause,  looking  about  the  room,  including 
picture) 

Pardon  me,  sir,  but  do  you  notice  anything  strange 
about  the  room  to-night?  (LEE  questions.)  Somehow, 
it  seems  so  sacred-like. 


150  MADONNA 

LEE 

You  noticed  it,  too?  I  thought  it  was  just  here. 
(Touching  himself)  It  seems  like  some  memory  whis 
pering  silently.  (He  rises  abruptly.)  You  sent  my 
note  to  Mr.  Gilbert? 

BARKER 
He's  hardly  had  time  to  get  here  yet. 

LEE 
Nonsense:  I  said  she  wanted  to  see  him. 

BARKER 
I'll  show  him  right  in. 

LEE 
And  go  to  bed  yourself  and  sleep  if  you  can. 

(He  places  hand  on  heart  quickly  as  though  in 
great  pain.     Staggers.     BARKER  goes  to  him.) 

BARKER 
Sit  down,  sir. 

LEE 
(Recovering) 

It's   the   old    trouble,   you   know.     Can't   keep   up 
much  longer.     Doctor  said  so.     Rupture  of  aneurism 


MADONNA  151 

threatened:  that  means  a  broken  heart.  I've  had  a 
hard  time  keeping  the  pieces  together  since —  Donna 
mustn't  know — about  my  long  journey  alone — that  she 
and  Gilbert  will  only  have  each  other  soon — very  soon. 

BARKER 
Don't  talk  that  way,  sir. 

LEE 

I  won't.  But  you're  provided  for,  old  fellow.  My ! 
My!  (Grimly)  I  wonder  if  you'll  look  after  me  in 
the  next  world. 

BARKER 

(Tenderly) 
I  hope  I've  been  good  enough,  sir. 

(LEE  smiles  and  pats  him  tenderly  as  DONNA 
re-enters  with  two  long  brass  candlesticks. 
The  door  bell  without  is  rung  violently.) 

DONNA 

Remember,  Barker,  Daddy  and  I  are  not  home  to  a 
single  soul. 

BARKER 
(Smiling  quaintly) 

I  understand,  Miss — not  to  a  single  soul.  Good 
night. 


152  MADONNA 

(He  exits.  The  wind  outside  blows,  and  the 
fire  burns  brighter.  LEE  crosses  to  fireplace, 
watching  her  as  she  places  the  candlesticks 
down.  The  door  is  flung  violently  open,  and 
GILBERT  STEELE  enters  hastily,  out  of  breath, 
excited,  tlirowing  his  snoiv-touched  coat  and  Jiat 
down  on  chair.  He  is  a  clean-cut,  very  at 
tractive  fellow,  about  twenty-five,  with  a  touch 
of  boyish  vivacity  beneath  the  suggestion  of 
reliable  manliness.  The  two  rush  into  each 
other  s  arms.) 

DONNA 

Gilbert! 

GILBERT 

There    is    nothing    the    matter?     Nothing?     (He 
kisses  her  eagerly  on  the  lips.) 

DONNA 
Why,  no,  dearest,  no. 

GILBERT 

It   would   break   my   heart   if —      (He   kisses   her 
again.) 

DONNA 
I'm  so  glad  you've  come;  but — why  did  you? 


MADONNA  153 

LEE 
I  guess  I'm  responsible. 

GILBERT 
(Seeing  him) 

Oh!  I  beg  your  pardon.  (They  greet  each  other 
affectionately.) 

LEE 

One  doesn't  always  see  things  in  the  fire  with  angels 
in  one's  arms. 

DONNA 
Daddy! 

GILBERT 

I  was  alone,  thinking  how — how  unworthy  I  was 
to  have  such  happiness — what  a  weak  fellow  I'd  been 
at  times — and — then  your  note  came.  (He  gives  it 
to  DONNA.) 

DONNA 
(Reading) 

"  Come  at  once.  Donna  wants  to  see  you."  But 
I  don't  want  to  see  you,  Gilbert. 

GILBERT 
Don't  you? 


154  MADONNA 

DONNA 

(Confused) 
Oh,  I  mean — 

GILBERT 
(Solicitously) 

Why  did  you  send  for  me,  Mr.  Lee?  I  thought 
you'd  both  wish  to  be  alone.  Is  there  something  you 
want  me  to  hear  with  her?  Nothing's  going  to  in 
terfere  ? 

LEE 

(Crosses  slowly,  puts  hand  on  GILBERT'S  shoulders. 

Starts  to  speak  seriously,  hesitates,  and 

notes  DONNA'S  intent  look) 

Where  are  you  going  on  your  wedding  trip  ? 

GILBERT 
(Laughing) 
Now,  that  wasn't  why — 

DONNA 

Besides,  that's  our  little  secret. 

LEE 

Niagara  Falls?  (They  vehemently  deny  it.)  Well, 
wherever  you  go,  don't  be  too  polite  to  her,  and  don't 
act  as  though  you'd  never  been  married  before. 


MADONNA  155 

GILBERT 
I  am  afraid  every  body '11  know  I'm  an  amateur. 

LEE 
(Af using) 

I'll  never  forget  how  I  acted — and  I  was  a  good 
deal  older  than  you.  My!  how  proud  and  foolish 
you  feel. 

GILBERT 

(Wisely) 
Yes,  sir. 

LEE 
(Smiling) 

Get  Gilbert  some  cigarettes,  Donna.  (She  does  so: 
GILBERT  takes  one,  and  only  smokes  it  a  moment 
nervously.)  Let  me  fix  you  something. 

GILBERT 
No,  I'm  not  thirsty. 

LEE 
(Smiting) 

Not  thirsty?     That  isn't  a  legitimate  excuse! 

(There  is  a  long  pause.  They  look  at  one 
another  in  embarrassed  silence.  LEE  has  been 
smoking  also.) 


156  MADONNA 

DONNA 
Well,  can't  we  sit  down? 

GILBERT 
Sure. 

LEE 

Yes.  (They  all  keep  standing,  however.  He 
finally  knocks  ashes  from  his  pipe,  and  sits  by  fireside.) 
Come  here,  the  two  of  you. 

DONNA 

Just  like  when  you  used  to  tell  us  fairy  stories. 
Goodness!  how  long  ago! 

LEE 

Perhaps  that's  what  I'm  going  to  tell  you  now — a 
real  fairy  story — one  I've  lived  through  and  have  not 
finished  quite  yet.  Now  a  lot  of  people  would  laugh 
at  me  for  talking  this  way  to  you  two,  but  they'll 
never  get  the  chance,  will  they?  Life  has  made  me 
believe  in  "  big "  things.  Perhaps  I  am  wise  and 
preachy  to-night,  but  I  always  feel  that  way,  Donna, 
when — when  I  think  of  your  mother. 

DONNA 

(Reverently) 
My  mother! 


MADONNA  157 

GILBERT 
(Same) 

It's  about  her  you  wish  to  speak  to  Donna?  (LEE 
bows.  GILBERT  starts  to  rise.)  Then  hadn't  I  better 
go?  I  know  you've  always  been  silent  about  her. 

LEE 

No,  boy.  Stay!  It's  a  father's  last  words  to  you 
both,  and  a  whisper  from  a  memory.  (GILBERT  sits 
beside  the  two.  The  clock  strikes  the  half  hour.  The 
fire  lights  the  group.  The  scene  is  full  of  poetry  and 
suggestion.)  I  hadn't  amounted  to  much  before  I 
met  her:  but  somehow  she  believed  in  me  and  I  felt 
she  did.  She  made  me  want  to  do  things,  for  her 
sake  as  well  as  my  own.  And  she  wouldn't  let  me 
wait  till  I  had :  she  wanted  to  struggle  along  with  me. 
We  married,  and  she  gave  up  many  a  better  man. 
You  must  struggle  together  for  a  while.  It  will  bring 
out  the  best  in  you — and  perhaps  I  haven't  altogether 
forgotten  you —  But  it's  of  your  mother  I  \vas 
speaking.  I  brought  her  from  the  church  here  in  this 
room.  It  has  always  been  home  to  me  all  these  years. 
(Looking  about)  It  hasn't  changed  much;  only  when 
you  grew  up,  Donna,  I  moved  the  bed  into  my  little 
room  off,  and  put  some  books  in.  (Indicating  books 
under  picture  of  Madonna)  But  the  pictures  and 
things  are  about  as  they  were  when  we  first  came  here 
together,  alone.  (Re?niniscently)  She  was  very  beauti 
ful,  children,  very  beautiful,  with  her  soft  eyes  and 


158  MADONNA 

golden  hair.  How  those  months  passed!  We  often 
sat  by  that  window  during  the  long  summer  evenings: 
I,  talking  over  my  work  with  her,  and  she  listening 
gravely  and  sewing  the  baby  clothes  you  were  soon  to 
wear.  It  was  here,  you  know,  you  were  born.  I  was 
with  Barker  in  his  room.  (Smiling.)  He  seemed  to 
think  I  only  needed  brandy — Ha!  how  long  it  was 
till  the  late  Mrs.  B.  came  to  tell  me  a  little  girl  had 
come.  They  wouldn't  let  me  speak  to  your  mother 
that  day;  but,  at  night,  I  tip-toed  into  the  room  and 
closed  that  door.  We  were  alone.  On  the  tiny  crib 
a  hand  rested  as  though  it  warned  all  trespassers 
away.  I  could  not  move  for  a  long  while.  I  felt  in 
some  shrine,  where  no  7720/7  should  have  entered.  Her 
breath  was  calm  and  steady,  like  music  in  the  silence. 
She  moved  and  brushed  a  curl  from  her  brow,  and 
the  moonbeams  fell  upon  her  golden  hair  which  haloed 
everything!  I  went  nearer,  like  a  thief,  to  steal  a 
look  at  you.  She  did  not  hear  me:  she  heard  the 
breathing  of  our  child,  and  only  in  her  dreams.  I 
pulled  the  coverlet  down  and  looked  at  you.  You 
weren't  so  pretty  then.  (He  smiles.)  And  yet  I 
don't  think  you  ever  seemed  more  wonderful  to  me. 
Your  mother  never  moved,  even  when  I  knelt  beside 
her  and  kissed  her  hand  and  tried  to  think  the  things 
I  felt.  (A  long  pause,  as  though  he  were  lost  in 
recollection.  DONNA  looks  up.  Puts  her  hand  on 
his,  recalling  him.)  I  don't  know  how  long  I  was 
there,  only  from  your  mother's  face  the  moonlight  rose 
and  threw  its  rays  like  fingers  pointing  to  the  picture 
above  her  bed.  (Indicating  Madonna)  It  was  that 


MADONNA  159 

same  picture.  (Pause.)  Children,  there  are  some 
things  we  lock  in  our  hearts  and  throw  away  the  key 
or  save  the  key  to  use  it  once.  You  two  alone  must 
know  I  felt  somehow  that  night  as  though  I  knew  all 
the  secrets  of  the  world — for  I  understood  then  what 
love  was — what  marriage  really  meant  to  those  who 
really  loved.  (Tenderly)  That  was  the  most  sacred 
moment  in  my  life.  (  There  is  a  sense  of  awe  present.) 
As  I  sat  there,  Gilbert,  I  resolved  to  be  worthy.  We 
men  never  feel  worthy,  do  we?  (GILBERT  lowers  his 
head.)  Well,  I've  tried  to  be.  ( DONNA  squeezes 
his  hand.)  And  to  that  little  bit  of  breathing  flesh, 
now  grown  so  like  her  mother,  I  promised  all  the  best 
that  could  be — so  that  she  would  be  a  worthy  wife 
and  mother  to  the  man  she  loved — as  her  mother  was 
to  me.  Gilbert,  she's  the  dearest  thing  I'm  leaving 
behind  (Correcting  himself)  I  have.  Take  good  care 
of  her.  I  know  you  will  'cause  I  know  you  are 
worthy,  too.  (Long  pause.)  Your  mother  never 
left  her  bed.  I  told  her  of  my  midnight  visit  before 
she — and  she  only  pressed  my  hand — oh!  so  faintly — 
and  never  said  a  word.  But  I  knew  she  understood 
and  was  proud  that  her  little  girl  wTould  grow  up. 
I  couldn't  help  calling  you  Donna — "  Madonna  " — 
because  somehow  that  night  has  always  been  a  yes 
terday.  (He  clears  his  throat.)  Children,  never  be 
ashamed  of  the  biggest  and  best  thoughts  you  feel.  I 
wonder  if  you  two  understand  the  real  big  thing  an 
old,  foolish,  sentimental  father  is  trying  to  tell  you 
this  wedding  eve?  (Calmly  and  reverently  DONNA 
rests  her  head  upon  her  father's  bosom.  He  puts  his 


160  MADONNA 

arm  about  her  and  looks  at  GILBERT,  who  stretches 
out  his  hand  in  understanding  and  in  reverence. 
GILBERT'S  face  is  set  and  determined.  LEE  stands 
looking  at  them;  then  places  their  hands  in  each  others. 
They  watch  him  go  back,  take  a  candle,  and  hold  it 
high  above  him  before  the  Madonna  and  her  Child. 
They  look  reverently  at  it,  too.  Pause.  He  puts  the 
candle  on  the  table  near  the  picture  and  comes  down.) 
Donna,  go  to  your  room.  You'll  want  to  be  all  by 
yourself,  now.  Say  good-night  to  her,  Gilbert,  and 
good-by  'til  I  bring  her  to  you  in  the  church  to 
morrow. 

(GILBERT  reaches  over  to  her,  she  lifts  her  lips 
to  his  but  he  gently  lowers  her  head  and  kisses, 
with  infinite  reverence,  her  hair.  She  lifts  her 
head,  a  wonderful  smile  of  spiritual  love  light 
ing  her  eyes.  They  look  at  each  other  firmly. 
He  turns  to  LEE,  offers  his  hand.  LEE  hugs 
him.  GILBERT  tries  to  speak  but  cannot.  He 
turns,  halts  before  the  Madonna  a  second,  and 
then  exits.  DONNA  crosses  to  LEE.  He  takes 
her  in  his  arms.  She  is  very  calm  now.  She 
leaves  him,  and  with  a  look  of  emulation, 
proudly  flung  to  the  picture,  she  crosses  and 
slowly  goes  off. 

LEE  is  alone.  He  staggers  a  moment  as  though 
seized  with  heart  trouble.  He  recovers  with 
effort.  He  puts  out  the  lights,  closes  the  door, 
fastens  the  windows,  pulls  down  the  shades, 
cutting  out  the  moonlight  and  leaving  only  the 


MADONNA  161 

firelight  and  a  single  candle  to  light  the  room. 
He  takes  this  one  candle  and  holds  it  high 
above  the  Madonna.  He  half  murmurs  before 
it.  The  clock  strikes  ten  slowly,  and  he  stands 
there  motionless,  like  some  shadow,  lost  in 
memory.) 


SLOW  CURTAIN 


THE  MAN  MASTERFUL 


THE  PEOPLE 

OLIVER  WILLIAMS  (who  does  not  appear) 
MRS.  OLIVER  WILLIAMS,  his  wife 
EDITH  SHERWOOD 


SCENE 
A  room  in  EDITH  SHERWOOD'S  flat 


THE  MAN  MASTERFUL* 

r  *  1HE  entrance  from  the  halhvay  is  at  the  back 
f  in  right;  the  varnished  door  holds  a  heavy 
•*"  chain  ivhich,  at  rise  of  curtain,  is  fastened 
across.  Upon  the  back  wall  there  are  many  small  pic 
tures  and  photographs;  beneath  them  a  long  box-couch 
with  a  green  covering.  At  the  left,  a  double  curtain 
drawn  hides  further  roojns  beyond.  At  the  right,  a 
bureau  and  some  bookcases  fill  the  space  between  the 
door  and  the  window  which  opens  out  upon  the  fire- 
escape.  There  is  a  writing  table  in  the  center  with 
chairs  about.  The  room  suggests  the  abode  of  a  woman 
supporting  herself,  with  its  certain  air  of  unspecified 
use  coupled  with  touches  purely  feminine.  There  are 
some  indications,  however,  that  its  owner  is  not  with 
out  connections  and  sympathies  more  aristocratic  than 
her  present  surroundings  would  imply. 

The  stage  is  empty  for  a  while,  then  a  bell  is  heard 
off.  The  noise  of  some  one  behind  the  curtains  is 
suggested  evidently  rising  to  open  the  downstairs  front 
door.  After  a  short  delay  a  knock  is  heard  upon  the 
apartment  door  itself.  EDITH  SHERWOOD  enters  from 

*  Copyright,  1911,  by  George  Middleton.     All  rights  re 
served. 

165 


i66  THE  MAN  MASTERFUL 

the  other  room,  and  crosses,  after  portraying  a  sense 
of  the  importance  of  what  is  to  happen. 

She  is  dressed  in  a  neat,  simple,  closely  fitting  ging 
ham  gown  which  may  have  been  made  by  herself.  She 
is  tall,  well-lined,  robust,  and  vibrant.  There  is 
authority  and  self-reliance  in  her  personality,  and  the 
beautiful  Greek  regularity  of  her  face  does  not  entirely 
conceal  its  warmth  and  health.  At  present,  though, 
there  are  traces  of  long  vigil  and  mental  suffering. 
She  removes  the  chain,  opens  the  door  to  discover  MRS. 
OLIVER  WILLIAMS  standing  outside,  her  hands  half 
folded  before  her  as  though  having  waited  in  patience. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS  is  middle-aged,  her  hair  turning 
gray,  her  face  pinched  and  bloodless.  There  is  little  in 
dication  of  any  vitality  save  in  her  restless  eyes:  her 
manner  is  calm  though  not  without  conveying  some 
studied  intention  throughout.  She  uses  few  gestures, 
and  speaks  almost  without  emotion  in  an  even  mono 
tone,  yet  with  a  subtle  strength  in  spite  of  her  obvious 
physical  weakness.  She  is  very  carelessly  gowned,  and 
her  appearance  at  first  would  be  always  inconspicuous. 
She  holds  a  letter  in  her  hand  to  which  she  refers  and 
then  replaces  in  her  handbag.  Miss  SHERWOOD  is 
slightly  embarrassed. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
Is  this  Miss  Sherwood?     Edith  Sherwood? 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
Yes. 


THE  MAN  MASTERFUL  167 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
I  am  Oliver  Williams'  wife. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

Oh,  to  be  sure.  I — I  didn't  mean  you  should  take 
all  this  trouble,  Mrs.  Williams. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

I  thought  we  could  talk  better.  My  husband  might 
have  come  in  at  home.  You  were  not  expecting  him 
here,  though,  were  you? 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
No,  not  now. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
That  would  have  been  a  pity,  wouldn't  it? 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
Do  come  in. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
Thanks. 

(MRS.  WILLIAMS  comes  in  almost  diffidently 
as  Miss  SHERWOOD,  deeply  moved  and  trying 
to  gather  herself  together,  slowly  crosses  the 
door,  and  mechanically  fastens  the  chain.) 


1 68  THE  MAN  MASTERFUL 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
Won't  you  sit  down? 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

Thanks.      (She  goes  to  a  chair.)     You  wrote  you 
wanted  to  talk  to  me. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
Yes,  yes,  but — 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
I  suppose  it's  about  my  husband. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
Yes,  Mrs.  Williams,  it  is — but — 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

(Calmly) 
Well? 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
(With  a  little  nervous  laugh) 

I  knew  exactly  what  I  expected  to  say — but — but 
you're  not  like  I  thought. 


THE  MAN  MASTERFUL  169 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

Then  you've  never  seen  me  with  him?  (Miss 
SHERWOOD  shakes  her  head  sloivly.)  We  go  out 
very  little  together :  he  has  other  places  where  he — 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
(Interrupting) 

Yes;  that's  what  I  want  to  talk  of,  Mrs.  Williams — 
about  myself  and  him. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
I  thought  so;  it  was  kind  of  you  to  write — first. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
(  Temporizing) 
Perhaps  there  was  a  little  curiosity,  too. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

To  see  what  Oliver  Williams'  wife  was  like? 
Well,  it  did  surprise  you,  didn't  it?  And  please  you, 
too!  (Miss  SHERWOOD  conventionally  protests.) 
Oh,  people  never  look  at  me  when  I  pass.  I  know. 
But  I  wasn't  always  parched  and  sapless:  once  I  was 
like  you — and  not  so  many  years  ago — like  you,  red 
and  strong — but  never  so  handsome — no;  yet  inside  I 
was  alive  and  beautiful.  That's  just  as  good,  isn't  it? 


170  THE  MAN  MASTERFUL 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
To  be  sure — to  be  sure. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
(Eying  her) 

Well,  now  that  you  see  I'm  not  much  of  a  rival 
(Miss  SHERWOOD  turns  abruptly  toward  her:  they 
face  each  other) — suppose  you  tell  me  what  you  were 
going  to. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

It's  harder  than  I  thought.  But  I  felt  I  simply 
had  to  do  it.  He's  not  aware  I  wrote  you,  is  he? 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
I  tell  him  nothing. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

I'm  glad,  though  it  seems  somehow  disloyal  to  him. 
(Impulsively)  He  told  me  you  didn't  love  him.  (MRS. 
WILLIAMS  starts  slightly.)  Oh,  you  don't,  do  you? 
Oh,  give  me  the  truth  and  I'll  explain. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

(After  a  moment's  deliberation  as  though  calmly 
trying  to  measure  the  other  woman) 

Why  should  that  concern  you  and  him? 


THE  MAN  MASTERFUL  171 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

Oh,  it  does,  it  does.  I  must  know  that  before  I 
speak  further.  I  must.  I  must.  Do  you  love  him? 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

No.  (Miss  SHERWOOD  breathes  easier,  though  the 
other  scrutinizes  her  closely.)  But  I  watch  him  all 
the  time  in  silence.  I  wonder  if  he  feels  my  eyes  on 
him.  That's  how  I  knew  there  was  somebody  else, 
knew  it  was  you. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
(Slightly  surprised) 
He  has  spoken  of  me? 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

Once  or  twice,  before  he  realized  you  were  going  to 
mean  something  to  him.  He's  been  silent  lately. 
People  are  so  careless  while  they  are  still  unconscious 
and  (pointedly)  and  innocent. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

(Indignantly) 
Mrs.  Williams,  I'm  a  good  woman.     I'm  straight. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
(Slowly,  as  though  satisfied) 

Yes,  I  believe  you.  I  wanted  to  be  sure.  Now 
there  can  be  truth  between  us. 


172  THE  MAN  MASTERFUL 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

I  intend  to  keep  everything  honest — honest  or  noth 
ing. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

How  can  I  help  you?  I'm  only  his  wife — Oliver 
Williams'  wife.  (Faintly  smiling)  I  wonder  if  you 
know  what  that  means? 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

I  had  my  idea  of  what  she  would — should  be  like, 
but  I  can't  make  you  out;  you're  different. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

I'm  not  the  woman  he  married:  I'm  made  over. 
He  has  changed,  too,  in  fifteen  years.  Things  are 
different  in  the  spring.  You  feel  you're  more  his 
sort,  eh? 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
He  thinks  so. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
Do  you? 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
He  loves  me. 


THE  MAN  MASTERFUL  173 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
(Half  to  herself) 

So!  it  has  come  to  him  again!  (After  a  pause) 
Well,  now  that  I've  seen  you,  there's  nothing  sur 
prising  about  that.  And  you? 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

I  care,  too.  I  don't  bow  my  head  when  I  say  it.  I 
love  him. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
It's  in  your  eyes. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

But  I  made  up  my  mind  he  shouldn't  look  deep 
into  them  and  see  for  himself  till  I  was  first  sure  you 
didn't  love  him. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
And  now  that  you  are  sure? 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

I  can  ask  you,  as  I  intended,  without  compunction, 
let  us  have  our  happiness. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
To  marry  you  ? 


174  THE  MAN  MASTERFUL 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
Yes,  of  course  that. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
Give  him  up?     Entirely? 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
Yes. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
(As  though  recalling) 
How  strange! 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

— in  my  seeking  you,  his  wife,  in  this  unusual,  open 
way? 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
No;  I  was  thinking  of  something  else. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

I  see  no  fault  in  loving,  understand  me:  so  I  give 
no  excuse,  but  I  must  make  an  explanation.  I  sat 
here  many  nights  puzzling  over  what  was  best,  for  I 
knew  by  doing  the  bravest  thing  I  could  keep  my  love 
most  clean.  When  I  first  met  him  I  didn't  know  he 
was  married:  no  one  of  his  many  friends  ever  spoke 
of  you.  Oh,  I  didn't  mean —  Forgive  me.  (MRS. 


THE  MAN  MASTERFUL  175 

WILLIAMS  motions  her  to  continue.}  But  I  wasn't 
on  my  guard,  and  then,  as  you  said,  it  was  all  so 
unconscious  and  beautiful.  Yet  I  soon  sensed  his  in 
terest:  we  women  are  never  surprised  when  men  love 
us,  are  we?  We  sort  of  take  it  for  granted.  (En 
thusiastically)  But  he  was  so  unusual — such  a  wonder 
ful,  masterful  man! 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
Yes;  masterful. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

And  I  was  flattered.  I  confess  it;  why  shouldn't 
I  be — to  have  Oliver  Williams  pause  and  look!  Then 
one  evening  he  told  me  about  you.  It  must  have 
been  because  he  knew  I  was  straight,  and  his  feeling 
was  the  right  kind.  He  saw  it  pained  me,  shocked  me. 
From  that  moment  I  was  a  divided  self.  I'm  anxious 
you  should  see  how  everything  was.  I  tried  to  draw 
away  gradually,  but  that  only  led  him  on.  Then, 
when  I  was  about  to  go  for  good,  to  give  up  my  little 
work  here — for  I  felt  I  couldn't  escape  him  when  he 
talked  (MRS.  WILLIAMS  smiles  knowingly) — he  told 
me  you  didn't  love  him.  Then,  Mrs.  Williams,  I 
stayed  deliberately,  because  I  owed  something  to  the 
thing  I  knew  by  now  I  felt.  I  wanted  to  share  in 
his  mastery,  his  career — before  all.  So  I  saw  there 
could  be  no  compromise  in  secrecy.  (She  is  silent  a 
few  moments.) 


176  THE  MAN  MASTERFUL 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
Love  dies  of  its  own  breath  with  the  windows  closed. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

That's  why  I  struggled  to  find  what  was  right;  but 
love  was  no  longer  a  heart-crying  emotion;  it  was  a 
problem  writhing  in  my  brain  as  well — and  that  isn't 
good  for  love.  I  couldn't  have  stood  my  burning  mind 
much  more,  if  he  hadn't  finally  said  that — that,  with 
you,  there  was  another,  too. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

(Visibly  moved  for  the  first  time} 

Was? 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
And  had  been. 

* 
MRS.  WILLIAMS 

(Poignantly) 
He  told  you  that? 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
Yes. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

To  bribe  you  he  told  you  that!!  Oh!  (She  bows 
her  head  in  a  long  silence.) 


THE  MAN  MASTERFUL  177 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
(Someivhat  at  a  loss) 

I  didn't  mean  to  walk  in  on  anything  sacred  or 
intimate.  It's  yours  and  only  mine  so  far  as  it  might 
help  us  to  some  solution.  But  we  must  be  naked, 
Mrs.  Williams,  in  moments  like  these.  Perhaps  he 
thought  it  would  be  so  much  easier  for  us  all  if  I 
knew.  It  did  seem  so  to  me — if  only  you  and  I  quite 
understood  things  right — once  and  for  all. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
(Slowly) 

It  does  seem  simple-like  on  the  surface,  doesn't  it? 
(She  lifts  her  head  and  speaks  very  deliberately.) 
But  you  can't  have  him,  do  you  hear  me?  You  can't 
have  him! 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

(Impetuously) 
What's  to  prevent  him  if  I  say — 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

Not  these  frail  arms  of  mine.  No.  They  couldn't 
keep  Oliver  Williams  from  having  his  own  way. 
He'd  brush  them  aside  and  crush  them  like  those  who 
oppose  him  out  in  the  world.  But  you  alone  can  stop 
him — and  you  will. 


178  THE  MAN  MASTERFUL 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
Step  in  the  way  of  my  own  happiness? 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
Are  you  so  sure  it  would  be  happiness? 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

Yes;  it's  everything.  I  can't  do  without  him;  I've 
tried  to  think  of  it :  it's  terrible.  I  know  now  why  one 
commits  crimes.  I  feel  sometimes  as  though  I  could — 
oh,  no,  no.  I  love  him.  (Bitterly)  If  you  don't  love 
each  other,  why  shouldn't  he  be  mine?  Did  I  come 
and  steal  him?  Wasn't  love  dead  between  you  before 
I  came?  Why  shouldn't  I  have  him?  Is  marriage 
for  you  a  knot  tied  in  Heaven  to  whip  and  bruise 
those  others  who  come  within  its  swing?  Why  should 
those  dry  ideals  of  wifehood  stand  in  the  way  of  throb 
bing  lives?  Mine  and  perhaps  the  man  you  love. 
Why? 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
(Calmly) 

Do  you  believe  it's  that  which  stands  in  your  way? 
Listen:  if  you  and  he  had  gone  away  together  I  think 
I  would  respect  you  almost  as  much  as  I  do  your 
coming  to  me  now.  You  should  have  done  what  I 
hadn't  the  strength  to  do  and  I  would  have  under 
stood.  But  you  didn't;  so  I  treat  you  differently. 
Don't  think  it's  my  pride,  my  duty,  or  my  religion 


THE  MAN  MASTERFUL  179 

that   will   keep   me   firm   against   you.     No.     No.     I 
wish  I  had  those  excuses. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
Then  it's  small-soulness. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

No,  it's  my  absolute  helplessness  now.  You  can't 
have  him,  because  I  need  him. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
I  need  him,  too.     He  needs  me. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
Oliver  Williams  needs  you! 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
Yes,  I  can  help  him  to  achieve. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

You!  (She  smiles;  then  shakes  her  head.)  You 
can't  have  him.  He's  my  habit  of  life;  I'm  too  settled 
to  change. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
(Leaning  closer  to  her) 
Even  to  go  to  the  other  one? 


i8o  THE  MAN  MASTERFUL 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
(With  a  touch  of  indignation) 

After  a  dozen  years,  go  to  him?  What!  Take  to 
him,  because  of  an  opportunity,  this  sapless  body! 
Give  this  that  belongs  to  the  husband,  to  the  man 
who  loved  me  when  I  was  like  you!  No!  No! 
The  memory  of  the  thing  he  loved  is  better  for  him 
to  keep  now;  that  still  warms  the  coldness.  This  I 
am  to-day  would  freeze  and  starve. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

(Desperately) 
Yet  you  have  starved  him  all  these  years. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

(Quickly) 
Not  by  taking  from  him  something  he  had. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
Yet  perhaps  he  still  hungers. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

You  can't  tempt  me  with  that.  The  taste  would 
destroy  the  need;  now,  for  him  it's  an  inspiration,  a 
dream  unpossessed.  He  is  becoming  something  and 
I  know  it's  through  me.  (Recalling)  He  never  mar 
ried.  He  sends  me  presents,  without  a  word,  on  the 


THE  MAN  MASTERFUL  181 

anniversaries — as  if  I  needed  reminders.  But  he  gets 
no  answer,  expects  nothing,  for  he  never  thought  I 
cared. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
Never  ? 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

If  he  had  once  seen  my  love  I  should  have  gone  to 
him  then.  I  wouldn't  have  let  him  suffer  the  other 
way — or  I  would  have — (she  recoils  slightly} — I 
nearly  did  it  as  it  was!  Instead,  instead  I  told  my 
husband  first,  as  you  have  told  me  first;  opened  my 
poor  heart  to  him  in  trust.  That's  really  why  you 
can't  have  my  husband,  for  he  didn't  let  me  go:  he 
kept  me — kept  me. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
He  loved  you  at  the  time. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

He  wouldn't  let  another  have  the  thing  he  owned! 
He  called  it  love,  but  words  are  only  masks  and  we 
all  use  many  words.  Yet  stunned,  bewildered,  per 
haps  flattered,  too,  that  I  should  be  worth  fighting  to 
keep,  I  weakly  submitted  to  his  first  wishes. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
(Struggling  against  the  irony  she  begins  to  see) 

It's  small,  petty  revenge  you're  taking;  you're  mak 
ing  him  and  me  pay  for  your  own  weakness. 


182  THE  MAN  MASTERFUL 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

No;  life's  simply  paying  you  both  back  for  the 
weakness  he  made!  It  was  strength  that  made  me 
go  to  him  first — strength.  I've  never  known  it  since. 
There  was  something  being  born  at  that  moment,  a 
soul,  a  character,  and  he  smothered  it.  It  wanted  to 
live.  But  it  was  such  a  little  thing  it  couldn't  fight 
very  much;  it  hadn't  learned  how.  It  died  easily;  he 
closed  the  windows  about  it. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

(Impressed  in  spite  of  herself  by  the  other's  manner, 
she  shudders  and  is  silent  for  a  while.) 

Mrs.  Williams,  you  are  speaking  of  the  man  I  love. 
You  are  saying  dreadful  words.  To  plant  in  me 
doubts  alone  would  be  cruel.  Don't  you  realize,  I'm 
trying  to  be  a  decent  woman,  fair  to  you?  But  you 
must  be  fair  to  me:  he  is  mine,  remember,  while  I 
care — mine  here  in  me.  You  must  let  me  understand 
what  you  mean. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

Yes.  We  must  be  naked,  you  said:  it  chills,  but  I 
think  you're  worth  telling  it  to;  for  it  will  save  you 
from  him. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
(Loyally) 

You  can't  strip  him.  He's  too  wonderful  to  me. 
YOU  mustn't  try. 


THE  MAN  MASTERFUL  183 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
Too  bad  he  should  lose  a  love  like  yours. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

(Firmly) 
I  am  waiting  to  be  made  sure  that  he  must. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
(Her  voice  gradually  warms  in  color  as  she  speaks) 

Then  look  at  me  when  I  have  finished  telling  you. 
Blame  me,  if  you  will ;  I  do  myself,  though  it  doesn't 
seem  to  alter  consequences.  But  remember,  it  was  that 
he  could  do  it,  that  he  could  rip  me  from  the  roots, 
take  me  away  to  isolation ;  a  lonely  island  in  the  Lakes 
where  things  were  barren  and  the  sands  dry  and  burn 
ing  and  I  had  only  him  before  me  day  and  night. 
Then  to  strip  me  of  all  the  garments  I  had  worn,  to 
put  on  the  harness  of  daily  service  to  his  man's  needs, 
to  do  things  I  never  had  done  before,  to  fetch  and 
carry  at  his  will.  And  you  ask,  why,  why  did  I? 
Because  he  talked  to  me  the  way  you  know  he  has;  he 
made  me  believe  he  was  doing  it  for  my  good.  And 
I  kept  on  because  I  felt  then  I  had  offended  him 
somehow — him  who  couldn't  keep  my  love — and  that 
he  might  also  see  I  was  wiping  out  the  fault.  But 
he  had  other  reasons  than  to  clear  myself  in  his  sight; 
he  was  doing  something  else  deliberately  all  the  time, 
methodically,  carefully,  studiously.  But  I  didn't  see 


1 84  THE  MAN  MASTERFUL 

it  at  first — pain  dulled  me  too  much  to  look  outside. 
I  only  knew  in  the  loneliness  the  days  were  growing 
longer  after  a  while,  and  when  I  faltered,  he  came 
to  me  kindly  and  helped  me  with  his  own  hands  to 
fetch  and  carry.  And  all  the  days  grew  longer  and 
he  helped  me  more  and  more.  And  then  I  began  to 
ask  his  help  and  he  smiled.  I  knew  why  later.  He 
gave  it  gladly.  And  then  one  day  I  was  ill  and  /  let 
him  wait  on  me  without  the  asking.  From  that  mo 
ment  I  was  lost — lost.  Oh,  I  see  every  step  of  it 
now.  If  only  the  hand  of  him  I  loved  could  have 
touched  me  just  once;  but  I  was  too  far  away  to  feel 
it  and  I  was  too  numb  and  I  was  living  in  a  fog. 
Then  things  lifted  slowly  as  fogs  do,  and  I  saw  what 
my  husband  was  accomplishing.  I  began  to  watch  to 
be  sure  I  was  right.  That's  where  I  began  to  watch. 
I  was  right.  I  saw  through  his  heart.  I  put  tests: 
he  always  met  them,  did  as  I  expected.  It  fascinated 
me  to  watch,  as  though  I  saw  the  gallows  being  built — 
interested  me,  eased  the  pain  somehow,  too.  He  was 
devoting  himself  to  accomplish  one  end — with  all  his 
absorbing  power,  one  end:  to  make  himself  necessary 
to  me;  to  make  me  see  I  was  his  dependent  thing. 


Miss  SHERWOOD 
(Enth  usiastically  ) 

That  was  strength!     Wonderful  strength!     If  he 
had  done  that  to  me  I  should  have  loved  him  for  it! 


THE  MAN  MASTERFUL  185 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

It  wouldn't  have  hurt  you.  You're  that  sort  of 
woman;  made  to  live  with  steel.  That's  maybe  why 
he  loves  you.  He  feels  that  perhaps.  You  would 
have  been  his  slave! 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
Yes,  to  my  glory! 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
And  you  couldn't  have  left  him? 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
No! 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

Neither  could  I — neither  can  I;  but  for  a  different 
reason.  Do  you  think  him  so  heartless  to  have  kept 
it  always  like  that?  Oh,  no;  he  knew  his  methods 
well.  He  came  to  me  one  day  and  told  me  I  could  go 
if  I  desired — leave  him.  He  wanted  me  to  credit 
his  generosity,  to  bind  me  closer,  to  make  me  believe 
I  was  staying  of  my  own  free  will — that  strongest 
bond  of  all.  He  didn't  know  I  saw  through  him  and 
that  I  didn't  dare  wound  his  pride  further  by  showing 
him  I  knew.  But  each  time  I  tried  to  break  I  felt 
bound  more  and  more  by  the  sense  of  my  own  help 
lessness,  my  own  limitations  which  he  had  planned  to 
make  me  realize.  Before,  sheer  love  without  thought 


1 86  THE  MAN  MASTERFUL 

and  self  doubt  could  have  swept  me  on  safely  through 
anything:  but  now — now  I  doubted  myself.  And  in 
that  doubt  I  found  my  own  unworthiness.  I  couldn't 
take  that  to  the  other.  I  couldn't,  but  my  husband 
did  not  know  I  couldn't.  That's  why  I  stayed. 
That's  why  I  saw  only  too  willingly  the  many  obstacles 
for  leaving  him  he  used  to  throw  in  my  way — finding 
eager  excuses  within  myself  for  the  crime  against  my 
love — ;  that's  why  more  and  more  I  slipped  back,  back 
upon  that  helplessness  which  at  least  obtained  service 
from  him.  And  as  I  took  it  more  and  more  greedily, 
with  the  years  I  lost  more  and  more  the  red  blood 
of  life,  and,  for  sheer  self-protection,  I  began,  in  turn, 
to  bind  him  to  me  more  and  more  by  that  helplessness 
until  there  was  nothing  of  my  own  strength  left — only 
the  rut  habit  dragged  me  through,  the  rut  I  have  never 
been  able  to  escape  from  all  these  years.  And  that's 
why  you  can't  have  him.  Look  at  me!  Look  what 
I  am!  I've  no  strength  to  be  alone.  He's  my  habit 
of  life.  I'd  be  lost  without  him.  I  can't  do  things  by 
myself.  I'm  helpless — dependent.  I'm  his.  He  tied 
me  to  him,  bound  me:  I'm  round  his  neck:  he  must 
drag  me  on.  You  can't,  with  your  love,  untie  that 
knot;  I  can't.  He  tied  it.  He  has  got  to  keep  the 
thing  he  made.  I'm  his.  He's  mine — mine — to  the 
end! 

(  There  is  a  long  pause.  Miss  SHERWOOD  has 
bowed  her  head,  completely  overcome.  MRS. 
WILLIAMS,  however,  soon  gains  control  of 
herself,  covertly  looks  toward  the  other,  and 
waits.  They  resume  very  quietly.) 


THE  MAN  MASTERFUL  187 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
If  it  only  had  been  love  I  could  forgive  him. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
So  could  I — a  little — but  not  myself. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

It  wasn't  honest  of  him  to  tell  me  of  the  other  one, 
after  that. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

He  drove  the  other  deeper  into  my  life.  I  did  not 
know  he  realized  it.  That's  something  to  have  learned. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

(Bitterly) 
To  bribe  me!     It  wasn't  honest! 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
(Following  up  her  advantage) 

He's  not  honest,  I  tell  you.  He  has  a  way  of  stalk 
ing  up  and  down,  making  you  believe  him  in  spite  of 
yourself  because  his  pride  is  in  it.  It's  his  power.  I 
gave  him  that  power. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
You! 


i88  THE  MAN  MASTERFUL 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

Yes.  I  watched  it  come  into  birth  there  on  the  lonely 
island.  Don't  you  see  his  own  strength  was  on  trial? 
He  couldn't  afford  to  fail.  So,  through  conquering 
me,  a  frail  woman,  he  found  the  way  out  there  to 
conquer  in  the  world. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
I  wonder  if  he  knows  that? 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

(Shaking  her  head  and  smiling  faintly) 

That's  my  secret  and  why  I  sometimes  smile.  So 
you  can  teach  him  nothing. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

And  I  thought  I  could  give  him  something  greater 
than  you! 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

You'd  be  like  the  others.  (Miss  SHERWOOD  looks 
up  slowly.)  I  can  tell  you.  There  have  been  others. 
He  will  remember  you,  for  he  forgets  when  once 
he  has. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
That  strips  everything. 


THE  MAN  MASTERFUL  189 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
(Calmly) 

I  must  fight  for  what  is  mine.  I  watch  him:  I 
always  know  when  they  come.  I  take  them  away 
from  him  one  by  one:  there's  a  way.  You  are  better 
than  the  others:  I've  given  you  the  truth.  (There  is 
silence,  then  she  rises.)  And  if  he  should  come  here — 
and  talk? 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

(Looking  up) 
I'd  see  you  clinging  to  his  arm. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
(Relieved) 

Then  go  away.  Don't  wait  or  hope  for  me.  Dead 
trees  stand  long.  What  good  you've  brought  each 
other  through  the  feeling  will  remain.  (Smiling 
grimly)  I  don't  mind  that  since  I  have  him. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
Yes,  I'll  go.     Everything  is  over. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
Good-by. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
If  only  he  valued  you. 


190  THE  MAN  MASTERFUL 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
(Smiling  enigmatically) 

I  don't  want  him  to:  that  would  make  it  harder 
for  me  and  him. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
I  see.      (She  buries  her  head  in  her  arms.) 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
(After  some  hesitation) 

I  feel  for  you  with  what  there  is  left  in  me.  Mem 
ory  just  now  made  me  live  and  suffer  for  a  moment. 
It  will  be  with  you,  too,  a  long  while.  Then  some 
morning  you  will  awake  without  his  name  on  your 
lips;  that  will  cut  deepest  when  you  think  of  it,  for 
it  seems  disloyal  to  forget.  But  that  also  will  pass 
and  you'll  find  new  reasons  besides  the  ones  I've  shown 
for  doing  what  you  must  do.  I  know:  we  all  fool 
ourselves  so  to  make  things  easier.  Good-by. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
Good-by. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

(At  the  door) 
If  he  had  only  let  me  go — made  me  go  I 


THE  MAN  MASTERFUL  191 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
He  would  have  been  free  and  I  might  have — 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
Strange  how  life  works  out. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

(Yearning) 
I  might  have — 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 

Who  knows?     He  might  have  been  different  if  he 
hadn't  conquered  me. 

Miss  SHERWOOD 
/  must  suffer  for  it. 

MRS.  WILLIAMS 
The  best  thing  he  has  loved,  too.  Strange! 

(As  MRS.  WILLIAMS  is  about  to  go  out  of 
the  door  which  she  has  opened  a  sudden  idea 
strikes  Miss  SHERWOOD.  She  rises  and  faces 
MRS.  WILLIAMS.) 

Miss  SHERWOOD 

Mrs.  Williams,  did  you  tell  the  truth?  Did  you 
tell  everything?  Do  you  still  love — ?  (She  halts 
helplessly  at  the  others  silence.)  What  difference 


192  THE  MAN  MASTERFUL 

would  it  make,  anyway?  It's  over.  Oh!  ! —  (She 
comes  slowly  down  and  sits  upon  the  chair  again, 
her  hands  clasped  before  her.)  Yet  it  was  masterful!! 
(She  seems  to  glow  at  the  thought,  but  MRS.  WIL 
LIAMS  only  smiles  enigmatically  and  slowly  goes  outf 
quietly  closing  the  door  after  her.) 


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